


The Loophole

by Wayland Smithee (TheAstronomyMod)



Category: Radiohead (Band)
Genre: F/M, Work Contains Fan(s) or Fandom(s), dubstep - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 224,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5210315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/Wayland%20Smithee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I guess this is known as "The Room" of Cheesecake? OK, it was written as a weekly serial. It was never meant to be digested in one go!</p><p>Radiohead's Loophole competition brings together a disparate group of fans online, to form a close community, united by friendship, relationships, sex, bands, collaborations and connections both musical and personal - mostly with each other, but also sometimes with Radiohead themselves.</p><p>This is primarily a story about fandom, and internet communities. Although Radiohead do appear throughout the story (as well as guest appearances from Nigel, Four Tet, and thinly veiled ciphers for various artists mostly on the Hyperdub and Brainfeeder labels) the main focus of the story, and the main characters are all fans. At least, until until the second half, when Radiohead go on tour, and real life and internet fandom collide head on, and members of Radiohead join the cast properly.</p><p>Given that the action takes place mostly in cyberspace, there's not much to have to warn for. Just the usual flaming, trolling and occasional internet bullying, much of which has racist and sexist overtones. Also, warning: MAY CONTAIN DUBSTEP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Time periods have been compressed for dramatic purposes, and release dates of some records have been altered, but for the most part, I have tried to stick to the timeline of Radiohead's 2003 tour. (However, if anyone wants to nitpick "but Four Tet didn't play that gig" or "FWD>> wasn't at Plastic People yet!" - yes, I know. Artistic license.)

Ironically, it was Jack who put the idea in my head in the first place. He came home from the pub full of beer and bitterness, outraged by the very concept, even as I could tell that he secretly wanted to give it a go.

"That band you like are doing a remix competition," he announced, flopping onto the sofa and opening a tin of Stella.

Prying my gaze away from the computer monitor, I craned my head to glance at him. "Which band I like?" The accusatory tone with which he said it meant it could be anything from Sugababes to Suicide.

"Oh you know the one..." He grasped drunkenly for words. "Posh boys with haircuts. Awful art school prog band, like to pretend they're experimental?" He snapped his fingers as if it would help the memory float to the top of his booze-addled brain. "You fancy their singer."

"I fancy everyone, according to you," I snorted, turning back to my sequencer, wondering how long I would have to entertain him before I could get back to fiddling around with my music. Now that Jack was home, I'd have to put it on headphones, or else be subjected to a stream of subtly sneering criticism under the guise of 'help.'

"You saw them recently. Maybe a month or two ago? In Shepherds Bush. You tried to drag me along but the touts wanted £200 a ticket so I stayed in the pub. I still can't believe you paid £200 to see some rock band." 

I racked my brain trying to remember the incident, but knowing Jack, he had exaggerated it beyond recognition. There wasn't any band on earth I'd pay £200 to see. Well, maybe one... oh, wait. The Shepherds Bush Empire. An expensive ticket, sitting way up in the balcony, but one of the most amazing shows of my life.

He took a long gulp from his drink, almost draining the can, then snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "Radiohead, that's it."

"It was worth every single penny." I turned slowly back towards him, trying to process what he'd said before he'd started in on my spending habits. "Are you sure? They always said that they wouldn't do remixes."

"That's what Luke claimed. He would know." Wiping beer off his beard with the back of his hand, Jack shrugged, then grinned evilly. "Luke reckons he's just going to record eight minutes of fart noises and screaming obscenities and send it to them... I reckon he's in with a chance... Better than that awful album you made me listen to."

Blocking out the rest of Jack's rant, I quietly connected to the internet and loaded up the official Radiohead website. Yes, there it was. An announcement of something called The Loophole, and a link to a website called Digital Landfill. And there was the index to a collection of what looked like snippets of wav files. I right-clicked on the first one to download it, then picked my headphones off the desk.

"Nah, let's hear them," Jack urged. "Might be a laugh, see how shit they are." As I pressed play on the first and started to download the second, Jack exploded in laughter, standing up and stumbling over towards me to better hear the strange noises that were coming out of my computer.. "Well, this is fucking rubbish, isn't it?"

"It's just a sample, Jack. It's what you do with it that matters."

Jack blinked at me slowly as I opened up ReWire and imported the sample into my digital audio workstation. "Are you going to do it, then? Are you going to enter?"

"I might."

He bent down, lent one hand gently on my shoulder, the gentle pressure that I knew was an invitation. For a second, I thought about it, but the idea of Jack, drunk, pawing at me, how carelessly he battered away at me when he'd had too much to drink, no, I didn't fancy it. Shrugging his hand off lightly, a movement so imperceptible that an observer might have missed it, I ignored Jack's come-on and started methodically downloading the samples one by one.

Jack snorted and shifted off, seemingly not even disappointed by my refusal, disappearing back to the kitchen, no doubt to fetch another tin of Stella. I plugged in the headphones and slipped them over my ears, trying to blot out the sound of Jack's drinking with these odd little loops. Some bits were recognisable - a drum pattern, a guitar riff - others just seemed to be random tones, vocals auto-tuned into synthetic sounds, bits of cut-up synthesiser. They started to recombine in my head, as I mapped out a frame, the seed of an idea, the germ of a song, like working on a jigsaw puzzle, pitch-shifting and re-tuning the sounds to try to get them to fit together.

 

\-----

 

It pained me to have to leave my DAW and go to work the next day. Even as I pounded away at programming code, I could hear the samples echoing through my memory. At lunchtime, I logged onto the official site and checked out the messageboard, wondering if there was any more information. The board intimidated the hell out of me - and not just the imminent threat of band members swooping down to interject in the middle of your conversation (as had happened to me more than once, twice with Jonny interjecting some advice about RSI and once with Colin chiming in about an arts centre in Maidenhead that had offered Jack an installation. I had spent the entire opening night terrified that he would actually turn up, but I'd always made a point of not talking about my personal life or my IRL identity on the internet.) It was just there were so many posters, and it could move so fast, especially during time zones when the Americans were all online. I could be following an interesting conversation, step away overnight, and come back in the morning to find the thread buried under an avalanche of posts.

The messageboard had, of course, exploded. I tried looking through for messages by reliable posters - SubterraneanHomesickAllen or TalkShowHost or even PrincessTelex - but every time there was a big announcement, the board would just get swamped. A couple of people claimed they had already finished their remixes - even posting links to MP3s - christ, had they just stayed up all night? Thom had been on and left a couple of posts wishing everyone good luck with the contest. I stared at the vivid blue of his screen name, feeling little butterflies squishing around my stomach that never quite seemed to wear off, no matter how much he posted. He really intimidated me. I mean, I had my pride. I would never go chasing after him, declaring my undying love every time he popped up, like some of the little girls on the forum. But inside? Inside I swooned and clicked on every damn message. Let Jack tease all he liked. The little butterfly flips of giddiness, they felt good.

Wait, there was SubterraneanHomesickAllen, he must be on lunch, too. Allen was a computer programmer from Basingstoke who had apparently been on the forum since it started, and on the unofficial forum before that, and the mailing list before that, and the usenet newsgroup back in the mists of time. I'd suggested a bugfix for a particularly troublesome bit of programming code for him when we first started talking, and we'd been firm friends ever since. Well, as much as you could ever really be friends with someone you'd never met, and knew solely through the snippet of text that made up his screen name and a contact in Instant Messenger. Yet still, despite the endless churn of newbies, trolls and flamers that a really huge band's messageboard attracted, there was still a core of regular users who were always on at the same times I was, who I had slowly grown to recognise and know, despite the constant interruptions from trolls and attention seekers. I signed in to the forum and said hello.

 

> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : so what do u think, eyesore? u gonna do it?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I d/l-ed all the bits last night but I haven't had much time to put anything together
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : have u worked out what they all are yet? TalkShowHost reckons some of the bits sound like the live version of _optimistic_
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't even know that I want to know what songs they're from, I don't want to spoil it because then I'll be tempted to stick closely to the original
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : but isn't that the point of a remix
> 
> **BearHunt** : Guys, it's not even supposed to be a remix. 
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : don't u even start with that whole radiohead don't do remixes thing 
> 
> **BearHunt** : But it's not a remix. Not technically. You're supposed to write an original song, based on their elements. Radiohead have never done remixes.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : radiohead don't do remixes, my arse. music has moved on, remixing is the future, thom knows where it's at, he accepts dancefloor culture

 

I rolled my eyes as Allen and BearHunt started to bicker. The two of them had been arguing since Kid A came out. Allen had thought it was the sound of the future, the best thing since sliced Autechre, and BearHunt had never quite forgiven the band for "abandoning guitars" and "going electronic" in some kind of Bob Dylan Judas move.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Guys, I gotta get back to work. Let me know if any more news about the contest comes out.
> 
> **BearHunt** : ttyl Eyesore
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : bye eyesore come on instant messenger tonight if ur around

 

\-----

 

Jack was out when I got home, so I opened a bottle of wine and sat down with it at the computer, then turned AIM on. It wasn't drinking alone if I was drinking with the internet, was it? SubterraneanHomesickAllen, however, had forgotten about our chat appointment, and was still dicking around on the forum.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : so how's your it's-not-a-remix coming, Allen?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : RUBBITCH. i can't get my head around the upgrade of cubase, it just won't communicate with reason any more
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Why don't you just learn to use the sequencer in Cubase, then?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i like reason. reason is simple and intuitive
> 
> **PabloNerudaROCKS** : HAHAHA Allen YOU & REASON HAVE NEVER BEEN ON EVEN A PASSING AQUCAINTANCE
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : reason just looks like all the old hardware i used to program on back in the 80s. i know what to do with it. cubase is all "automation lanes" and weird shit
> 
> **PabloNerudaROCKS** : YOU COULDN'T PROGRAMME A HARD DICK LET ALONE HARDWARE
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What do you need Cubase for, then?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : the WAV files
> 
> **PabloNerudaROCKS** : HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA WAV UR DICK U WAV
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ffs, pablo, go choke on your capslock
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : What do you expect, Allen, if you keep going on about all this stuff that no one else understands?
> 
> **PabloNerudaROCKS** : WHEN R U GOING TO SUCK MY DICK PRINCESS XEROX?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : fuck off, Pablo
> 
> **PabloNerudaROCKS** : THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID IN INSTANT MESSENGER LAST NITE
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : I've never sent you an instant message in my life, you liar.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : just run them through ReWire, it's easy
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : run what through rewire?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : the samples
> 
> **PabloNerudaROCKS** : SAMPLE MY DIK HAHAHAHAHHAH
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : this is impossible. i fucking h8 this forum sometimes
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : well you guys are always going on about obscure technical shit that no one else cares about, what do you think will happen?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : it's not like we're the only people who are about this kind of thing. Loads of people on the board are musicians
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : just look at the response to this competition!
> 
> **BearHunt** :  All this sampling and sequencer programming shit, it's ruining music and it's ruined Radiohead.
> 
> **PabloNerudaROCKS** : FUCK OFF BEARCUNT
> 
> **BearHunt** : go suck your teenage dick, Pablo. Grown-ups are talking?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : This messageboard has just become a nightmare. What we need is a special producer's forum for people who actually want to talk about, you know, *music*?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : eyesore, you're a genius. i know php, u know mysql, i've got a ton of rack space around the office i could hive off. we can easily do this. come on aim, let's talk about it

 

We sat up half the night feverishly talking on instant messenger and programming. I didn't know anything about programming a messageboard - I worked in the data centre of a multinational bank! - but all Allen wanted was for me to build him a few tables, so I did him a few Create and Insert statements, and he did all the heavy lifting in PHP, and built a site around it. By the time I woke up the next morning, it was pretty much there, we were just waiting for the domain name to propagate. It was rather bare bones, text only, with basic BBcode and minimal threading, but it worked. I found some free spam-blocking code and Allen installed it. Best of all, I still had full administrator privileges from when I'd built the database tables. Let PabloNerudaROCKS and trolling brethren even try to join, and I'd moderate their arses so fast they wouldn't be able to sit down for a week.

Allen started a thread on the official forum, announcing that we'd started a new forum for producers and musicians and anyone else who wanted to talk about making music, and people slowly started to join. I approved a few people whose screen names I recognised from the forum, and started a new Welcome thread.

 

> WELCOME TO THE LOOPHOLE. INTRODUCE YOURSELF HERE
> 
>  
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Welcome and say hello here. Feel free to tell us who you are, where you're from, what instruments you play or what DAW you use.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : gr8 idea, eyesore. i'm Allen, i'm from basingstoke. i play synth and sometimes drums. i use reason and cubase and i fucken hate it
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : I'm David, I'm from Edinburgh. I play guitar. I use Fruity Loops and sometimes Logic.
> 
> **KidAdie** : I'm the other Adie, I'm from Peckham, I grew up using MIDI, but I mostly use SoundForge to manipulate sounds. Top work on this forum, lads. Looking forward to talking with you!
> 
> **Windowlicker** : Joe, 17, Swindon, ABLETON 4 LIFE.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : eyesore, are you gonna bother introducing yourself, or do you just assume everyone knows you from the forum, you rock star ;)
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh! Sorry, Allen, forgot! I'm from London. I use Reason and Cubase and ProTools and a bit of Max/MSP and I , uh, fix broken analogue synths for a hobby so I tend to use a lot of hardware. I'm a programmer for my dayjob, too, so let me know if you need any tech support.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i don't play anything except grade 6 piano, but i just wanted to come over and say hello!
> 
> **Jonny** : Hello, I'm Jonny. I'm from Oxford. I play guitar, viola, banjo, ondes martenot, various bits and bobs of homemade synths and I mostly program on Max/MSP. Excited to hear what you lot do with the samples.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : PrincessTelex, you should learn how to produce. If you can play piano, you could totally use Reason. It's really easy.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : x-post OMG WTF?

 

I stared at the screen, wondering if someone was having me on. I hadn't approved anyone called Jonny, but then again, clearly Allen had approved PrincessTelex and Windowlicker, who I generally considered a complete arse on the main forum. Opening up the admin tool, I checked the IP address the post had come from, but it was a BT Home Broadband address which proved nothing except the user was posting from the UK.

 

> **PrincessTelex** : omg is that really jonny?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Look, OK, you've had your fun, "Jonny." I can see your IP address, and I'm warning you, if you play silly buggers with the forum, we can ban you. Please don't anyone else impersonate people from the band. We not going to put up with those shenanigans here.
> 
> **Jonny** : Oh. Sorry. Should I not have joined? I'm not here to play silly buggers, I promise. I just wanted to hear what people were doing! Oh well, I suppose I'll hear soon enough when the contest opens.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : if ur jonny, prove it. answer some questions only you would know. what kind of shampoo do you use? what did the fans outside the backstage door in paris give you after the show?
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : Don't ask lame girly shit like that. What kind of strings do you use?
> 
> **Jonny** : Blimey. I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition!
> 
> **Jonny** : (no one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Our chief weapon is surprise! Surprise and fear! Fear and surprise!)
> 
> **Jonny** : ha ha ha ha! Just a joke. I'll come in again, shall I?

 

And with that, he winked offline. I hit refresh, and then again, but the board was silent. I could see several users hanging out on the thread, but no one posted anything, as if everyone were holding their breath to see if he came back or not. Finally someone posted.

 

> **PrincessTelex** : omg, eyesore, go and check the official forum

 

I opened it in another window and instantly saw the message right at the top, highlighted in blue.

 

> **Jonny** : No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!!! Our three chief weapons are Dean Markley 10-46's, a plastic figurine of Zoltar from Battle of the Planets and Timotei Extra Gentle formula. (I like it because it smells like honey.)

 

I snapped with my mouse, closing the window abruptly and pulling away from the computer keyboard as if I'd been burned. This was not what I'd signed up for when I agreed to administer the forum. Still, it was rude not to respond. Especially to Jonny Greenwood. Though somehow he seemed slightly less intimidating when he was just being a geek that posted dumb Monty Python jokes. But when I switched back to the Loophole Forum window, all hell had broken loose. Half a dozen people had cross-posted all over each other, spinning the thread out to 3 pages already.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : KNOCK IT OFF PEOPLE! Can we start a thread to chat about this, and leave this one for introductions, please?

 

> THIS IS THE "OMG DID JONNY REALLY POST?!?" THREAD
> 
>  
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry to shout, I'm starting to understand why the moderators on forums are so cranky all the time. As you were. It looks like that is really Jonny. Please try to behave like adults, OK?
> 
> **Jonny** : Did I pass the audition, then? Can I stay?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry I gave you a hard time earlier. Can't be too careful. You see the way people act like complete idiots when they think a rock star is involved. I just don't want this place turning into the Main Forum on our first day.
> 
> **Jonny** : I'm sorry, It's probably my fault. I shouldn't have said anything.
> 
> **Jonny** : I am pleased you've started this forum, though. We can put a link to it on the website, if you like.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : We really appreciate the offer, but can I just talk that over with Allen and get back to you? It's only a little web server and I'm worried the traffic might crash it.
> 
> **Jonny** : Well, the offer's open if you want it. We might even be able to move it to our servers, we've got a lot of bandwidth.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : that would kind of defeat the purpose? i'm not being entirely altruistic, starting this forum. i wanted the programming experience for my cv. 
> 
> **BearHunt** : I might have known, Allen is never without his ulterior motives
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : don't start, bearhunt. look, jonny, i'm going to make this a private thread, hang on.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : can you do that?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : in the admin tool. i'll show you. 
> 
> THIS THREAD IS NOW PRIVATE FOR USERS: Jonny, LonelyIsAnEyesore, SubterraneanHomesickAllen
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : are we all still here?
> 
> **Jonny** : I can still see you.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : look, mate, i'm not being funny, but are you planning on hanging around here?
> 
> **Jonny** : Well, I don't have that much time to spend online, but...
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : We can't exactly ban him, Allen, it is his band.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : look, my servers started getting absolutely hammered when you started posting. it's past noon, the americans have come online. usage spiked, my network ground to a halt, can't have that during work hours
> 
> **Jonny** : Oh, I am sorry, I didn't think. I just imagined it would be fun. Perhaps I could give some tips on programming synths. Perhaps I could even pick up some useful hints myself? I'd better not if it's going to be trouble, though.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, can't we do it after hours? When there's less stress on Allen's network? Perhaps we could advertise it in advance? Live webchat with Jonny giving production tips?
> 
> **Jonny** : Ooh, that might be fun. We might even get Thom or Nigel to come on, talk people through the songs?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : absolutely NOT
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : why not? that's a genius idea! get the right kind of audience for the forum. real technical stuff, nuts and bolts and guitar pedals
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : eyesore, are you still there?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : ...
> 
> **Jonny** : Well, think about it. We don't have to. I'll just... lurk.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, I just... No! I'm just feeling weird about the idea of the band posting here.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Damn. I'm sorry. That came out worse than I intended.
> 
> **Jonny** : No, I'm sorry, I'll go. It was a stupid idea.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No! Don't go, please.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's just... I'm really intimidated by Thom. I'm intimidated by all of you, but especially Thom. This is going to sound stupid, but, well, I was going to post some of my music here. You know, get other people's opinions on unfinished projects. If I thought Thom - well, any of you, really - was going to be listening, I'd be too scared to post it!
> 
> **Jonny** : Well, he's going to hear it eventually if you submit a track to the competition!
> 
> **Jonny** : (and I hope you do, please don't let us put you off it.)
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : yeah, but I don't have to sit there and read his reactions while he listens to it? Which is what I was hoping people would do on this forum?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : actually, eyesore's right. i guess i have bigger balls than anyone, i don't care who hears my music - but i could see how it could be really quite off-putting to a newbie
> 
> **Jonny** : Thom's really not intimidating at all. Honestly.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : not to you, he's not.
> 
> **Jonny** : Well, I suppose I was a bit intimidated when I first met him, but only because he was several years above me at school. He's really quite funny and affectionate, once you get to know him.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : how about we just isolate the rh production chats in a separate section of the forum? then i'll make a private, members-only subforum for people who want to post works-in-progress away from prying eyes. how's that, is that a good compromise?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Yeah, I think that'll work.
> 
> **Jonny** : I'm pleased. I'll talk to the others and see what they think about the chats, and let you know. Now I'll go before I accidentally destroy your servers. Bye!

 

As his name blinked off the active users list, I felt a distinct prickle at the base of my neck. I still didn't entirely believe that it had been real, even with the whole log of our conversation recorded on the screen above my blinking cursor. I desperately wanted to go back onto the forum and somehow talk about what had just happened, that I had just had a perfectly reasonable online conversation with one of Radiohead, but at the same time, I felt the weight of responsibility as a Mod, to set an example, and not act like a shrieking teenager. Besides, if I acted how I really felt, I'd probably blow Allen's chances of getting a proper, professional production chat out of them. Damn, I hated being a grown-up sometimes. In the background, I heard the front door, and realised that Jack was home.

"Hello?" he called out, and I sighed with relief that his voice was sober. "Anyone in? I brought takeaway."

"I'm here," I called back, and logged off the computer. Walking into the kitchen, I smelled the food and felt a sudden surge of affection for him again. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I leant my chin on his shoulder as he dished out two portions of Chinese food. "You will never guess what happened today?"

"Alien invasion? Spontaneous combustion in the shower? Peace in Afghanistan?"

"No, nothing that exciting. Just... well, you know that band I like?" Jack just rolled his eyes and made a long-suffering face. "Well, anyway, me and Subterranean Homesick Allen - my mate Allen, from Basingstoke - we programmed this internet forum, and..."

"Wait, you made an internet forum? Like, a messageboard?" That had got Jack's attention, far more than anything in my boring day.

"Yeah, well, Allen did most of it. I just contributed the database tables..." I shrugged modestly.

"Can you do me one?" Jack's eyes brightened as he speared a stalk of broccoli and munched on it. "Like, for my website? Could do with one to spice things up."

I sighed deeply. With Jack, everything always came back to his career, his work and the relentless advancement of himself. "You'd have to ask Allen. He did the bulk of the programming... and you'd probably have to upgrade your website. I don't know how much it'd cost..."

Jack frowned, scratching his beard defensively. "You're my wife, and you can program a messageboard for some dumb rock band, but you can't even do one for me?"

Oh, please, let us not get in a fight tonight? I'd been in too good a mood all day. "Sweetheart, if I could do it myself, I'd do it for you in a heartbeat, but I told you, Allen did most of it." He sulked, sticking out his lower lip defensively, and I moved closer, patting him affectionately on the thigh. "Alright, I'll ask him." That seemed to please him, as he smiled smugly and turned on the television as we ate, my exciting news forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Loophole forum has problems with some old and familiar trolls, and a new user called SleepFuriously that the admins worry may be a problem.

I was at work the next day, so I caught Allen online at lunchtime to talk to him about programming.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Allen, how easy is it to learn PHP?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : you've got a lot of programming experience, so probably not that hard. what do you need? if there's stuff on the loophole that needs fixing, i can do it, no problem. unless you want to learn?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it's not for the site, it's or something else.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : oh, i've got a good tutorial on pdf, i'll email it to you. what are you thinking of doing, work or pleasure?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Neither, really. I told my partner we built a messageboard for Radiohead and he got all jealous, and now he wants me to build him one. You know how guys are, so jealous, so competitive.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : oh.

 

The other end of the connection suddenly went very quiet. He was still signed on, but he just wasn't typing. What on earth was going on? I felt a sudden lurch in the pit of my stomach. Then I realised, staring at the blinking cursor. Was this the first time I'd mentioned Jack? What if... No, I'd never got that kind of vibe off SubterraneanHomesickAllen. In fact, several times, he'd rebuked other posters for being pervy towards girls on the main forum. I'd never given it a second thought as we swapped bits of code and advice on music software. We were mates - but what if he had been expecting something else?

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : If you could find that tutorial, that'd be great. I'd really appreciate it. I'll send you over some samples off the MS-20 I'm working on as swapsies?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Allen, you there?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah. no, i'm sorry. it's cool, it's just a bit of a shock, is all. but it's cool. i appreciate you telling me
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Wait. You knew I had a partner, right?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : well, not really, but i suppose of course you must. it's cool, though. really. we're mates, right?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Of course we're mates! We're cool. I never got any other kind of vibe off you.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : GOOD.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : wait, no, i meant, ha ha. ur funny.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i'm going to lunch. check yr email

 

I logged off chat and onto my webmail, and saw that he'd sent the PDF, but then saw that there were a couple of automated mails from the Loophole forum, new members waiting to be approved. I didn't recognise either of the names from the main forum, but they seemed legitimate, so I let them both in. Allen had done some work on the forum overnight, and there were now three separate boards - Radiohead Chat, General Chat, and Production Chat.

I went into Production Chat first, checked out a few threads, answered a few technical questions, trying to be as helpful as possible. One of the newbies had a question about sidechaining - why did they always want to know about sidechaining? - so I explained about compression and gating and posted a few suggestions and examples. Someone else had a question about Generative Music so I found a couple of links for them. Damn, this was fun. If only I could get a job doing this properly, for a living, but music software developers never seemed to be willing to have proper helpdesk support. I could happily spend all afternoon debating the pros and cons of mic-ing up analogue synths versus sending them direct, and throw in a good digression on SM-57s dynamic range compared to the Audio Technica line while we were at it. KidAdie had posted a track and asked for comments, but unfortunately I didn't have any headphones at work, so I just bookmarked it with a promise to listen when I got home.

Then I went into Radiohead chat, curious as to why there were threads already, and saw that PrincessTelex had been quite busy - she'd made an appreciation thread for each of the 6 albums - yes, even Pablo Honey. Oddly, that one seemed to have the most activity so I clicked on it.

 

> PABLO HONEY APPRECIATION THREAD
> 
>  
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : what do you think about RH's debut? is it a complete W.A.S.T.E. of time or are there any hidden gems on it? are you completely sick of creep or do you still have time for it?
> 
> **BearHunt** : PH was the first RH album I ever heard it, so I still have a soft spot for it. ACPG and Blow Out are fantastic tracks. Better than anything on Kid A by miles, that's for sure.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : BearHunt, I'm not having a go, but it just seems like you don't even like the band any more, so why are you even still posting on their forum?
> 
> **Windowlicker** : PrincessTelex, your not even a producer, so why are you even posting on this forum?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : Allen never said you had to be a producer to post here, just be willing to talk about the music. So let's talk about the music. let's talk about pablo honey now.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : but its shit.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : It's not total shit, there's some interesting moments on it. The production is pretty bad, it's just bog standard 90s grunge, but you can see them learning their songwriting craft
> 
> **BearHunt** : I'm really fond of Thinking About You, that's a really underrated song
> 
> **MeatingPeopleIsEasy** : thinking about you is about WANKING
> 
> **Windowlicker** : wanking?
> 
> **MeatingPeopleIsEasy** : he says it right there, "I'm playing with myself" ha ha he's totally wanking
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : he's not wanking, it's a metaphor. he's saying that he's fooling himself, thinking he still has a chance with the girl he's in love with
> 
> **MeatingPeopleIsEasy** : it totally is, it's about wanking. thom yorke wanking. think about that, Telexie, i bet you like thinking about thom's cock
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : ew, don't be gross, go away, leave me alone you pervert
> 
> **Windowlicker** : OMG it totally is, he sings "I'm playing with myself" ha ha thats hilarious
> 
> **MeatingPeopleIsEasy** : HE'S WANKING, HES TOTALLY WANKING MISS XEROX I BET YOU WANK WHEN YOU LISTEN TO THOM YORKE EVERYBODY LOOK AT MISS XEROX PLAYING WITH HERSELF YOU UTTER WANKER
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Hi, Pablo. 1) You're banned for harassment. 2) I've got your IP address now, so don't even think of re-registering with a different name. Goodbye.
> 
> USER: MeatingPeopleIsEasy HAS BEEN BANNED FROM THE FORUM
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : thank you, eyesore.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : holy shit, what just happened? did eyesore just banhammer on someone for fucking with telex? that's hardcore!
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : I don't know that I'm comfortable with this. Isn't that an abuse of mod powers, just banning someone like that? We don't know that it was Pablo, and even if it was, he's a regular. You can't just go banning regulars, where will it end? Is anyone safe? You should have warned him. We should have discussed it.
> 
> **BearHunt** : as far as I'm concerned, Pablo should have been banned a long time ago. Most of us are here because we want to get away from dickheads like him. Good riddance.
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : but he's a regular. He's just playing, he always tries to flirt with Telexie, can't you take a joke?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i don't like his kind of jokes, he's just gross. he makes me really uncomfortable, i'm glad he's gone
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You're right, he's a regular. I've seen him pull that shit with PrincessTelex a hundred times, and I've seen her ask him to stop a hundred times, and he never does. That makes it harassment. And if you can't tell the difference between flirting and harassment, you have no place on this board. End of.
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : this is censorship, and total fascism, I won't stand for it. Radiohead are explicitly against censorship, why is there such censorship on a RH forum?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : if you don't like it, no one's forcing you to hang around here. i'm in complete agreement with eyesore. now can we please stop this fucking meta bullshit and go back to talking about the music?
> 
> **Windowlicker** : even a shitty album like pablo honey?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Thing is, you can learn a lot, even from shitty albums. You can watch them grow. You can see the mistakes that they made on PH that they didn't make on The Bends. As a songwriter and producer, you can learn as much from something that doesn't work, as from something that does.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : also, Blow Out is a total jam.
> 
> **BearHunt** : Blow Out is probably one of my top ten RH songs of all time.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : what a great idea of a thread! radiohead: pick only 10. i'm gonna start one now

 

> RADIOHEAD: PICK ONLY TEN
> 
>  
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : Creep, Street Spirit (fade out), [nice dream], How Can You Be Sure?, Exit Music (For A Film), No Surprises, How To Disappear Completely, Pyramid Song, Sail To The Moon, There There
> 
> **KidAdie** : Planet Telex, Climbing Up The Walls, Meeting In The Aisle, Kid A, Idioteque, Packt Like Sardines, Pull Pulk Revolving Doors, Backdrifts, The Gloaming... argh too many to choose maybe Airbag but there are so many B-sides I might love more, I wish I could find space for Amazing Sound of Orgy!
> 
> **BearHunt** : Figures you pick all those horrible electro songs.
> 
> 1) Creep  
>  2) Anyone Can Play Guitar  
>  3) My Iron Lung  
>  4) Permanent Daylight  
>  5) Talk Show Host  
>  6) Paranoid Android  
>  7) Electioneering  
>  8) Lucky  
>  9) Where You End And I Begin  
>  10) Go to Sleep
> 
> You will, however notice that there are two albums I have completely ignored. Radiohead need to abandon this ridiculous pretence at writing noodley electronic music, and get back to what they excel at: complex melody and sophisticated rock arrangements.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : you need to take yr head out of yr ass, bearhunt, and accept that it's the 21st century
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : omg i can't believe i forgot amazing sound of orgy! awesome choice, kidadie! can i swap out that for creep?
> 
> **Windowlicker** : paranoid android, subterranean homesick alien, big boots/man-o-war, lift, palo alto, optimistic, idioteque, i might be wrong, knives out, backdrifts, myxomatosis
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : that's 11, joe
> 
> **Windowlicker** : shit! i guess ditch palo alto? or knives out? no! ditch i might be wrong

 

If there was residual bad feeling over Pablo's banning, it seemed to simmer down once the Pick Only Ten thread started going. If there was one thing that the internet loved, it was Top Ten lists. BearHunt was back on his predictable "everything without guitars is shit" schtick, but PrincessTelex and KidAdie and Windowlicker all kept the conversation going. I'd been worried about Windowlicker as a poster, that he was going to be disruptive, as he could be a real idiot on the main forum, but oddly, when Pablo wasn't around, he stopped dicking around and trying to show off, and actually made some good points. He could be a bit narrow-minded, but his genuine enthusiasm for the things he loved was infectious. Our old troll Pablo made a couple more attempts to re-register, but I recognised his IP address now, and rejected him on sight, until SubterraneanHomesickAllen finally got fed up and just blocked him from the site entirely.

Our little community grew slowly over the next week, as people made their way over from the main forum. I liked the production forum, best, obviously, but PrincessTelex started to take over the Radiohead forum and really made it her own. She had a bit of a scattershot approach, seeming determined to start threads about every single song, but occasionally the threads took off, and we had some really good conversations about obscure B-sides I had almost forgotten about.

I even got used to Jonny popping up unexpectedly. He mostly stuck to the production forum, though I did notice that he tried his best to post outside UK office hours - I would sometimes come in and find that he had posted some technical advice in the middle of the night, from the IP address of a German hotel or something. Oddly, he seemed to post more when the band were on tour - he would often drop in claiming that he was waiting for the band to soundcheck. It became a running joke that if he used the laptop onstage, that he was secretly checking the forum. For the most part, people were cool about him - I don't know if people were just too intimidated to engage with him, or pretending to be too cool to make a fuss over a pop star, but so long as he stuck to the private sections of the forum, there wasn't a lot of hassle. In fact, he was really useful, jumping in with sometimes off-the-wall but often surprisingly effective suggestions sometimes.

Every now and then, though, a newbie would join and freak out a bit, and we'd have the whole "omg is that really Jonny?" conversation all over again, but I found if I treated people with the stated expectation that they would behave reasonably, mostly, they would behave reasonably. Mostly. A couple of newbies I had to give stern talkings-to, but usually I made it clear that this was not the sort of forum to put up with that kind of thing. The funny thing is, when SleepFuriously first started posting, he was one of the people I had to give a stern talking-to. I'd approved him quite early on, but he never posted, though I could see him sometimes sitting in threads where Jonny was answering questions. Fanboy, I thought to myself, especially after he started his first thread, barging on at some ridiculously early hour of the morning, when I'd gone in early to work to wait for a phone call from the Australian office.

 

> JONNY ARE YOU ONLINE?
> 
>  
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : jonny are you here? i've got a problem w/ my laptop, fucking thing is misbehaving again
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no sound!!!
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no sound at all. nothing. nada. silence. like the fucking grave.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : FFFFFFUCK. this is infuriating. where r u?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Hi, Furious. You're new here, so I'm just going to give you some friendly advice. Please be polite to the other forum members. Yes, even the pop stars. The other posters are here to chat, to be your friends, and maybe provide help and resources if you ask nicely. We are not here to have demands made of us, and if you continue to act this entitled to others' time, you will find you get nowhere.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : sorry i'm just really frustrated. i've been up all night trying to get this to work and it's fucked
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry I'm not Jonny but perhaps I can help? What seems to be the problem
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i installed some new software last night and now i can't get any monitors on anything. fuck.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : are you on a Mac or a PC? And what software?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : mac. i just installed the latest upgrade of Cubase. It's overwritten all my settings, i can't even get sound out of my guitar or anything
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Right. Can you get sound from other programs in your computer? Like, if you play a track on iTunes, do you get sound there?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah, itunes is fine. it's not the speakers, either, i checked them with the stereo
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : OK, I'm just going to guide you through some basic troubleshooting. Go into your System Preferences and check the Sound settings. Check both the input and the output. You want to make sure that the input is "Line In" not the "Internal microphone"
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : wtf?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : have you found it? I can send you a screengrab if you're lost
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no its fine i got it. it was set to microphone not line in. i can see the meter go on the screen when i strum my guitar now
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : OK, cool. You should be fine, now. :-)
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh god i'm so fucking stupid, yeah, that's sorted. thanks.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : no problem
> 
> 10 minutes later...
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no wait eyesore come back please it's still not working fuck fuck fck
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : stop swearing, m8! eyesore is trying to help you!
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : sorry i'm not swearing at eyesore i'm swearing at my bollocking computer
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's OK, I'm a mod here, I'm used to being sworn at. What's wrong now, Furious?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : still no fucking sound in cubase
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : OK, forgive me if I'm teaching my grandmother to suck eggs, but just check a few basics. You've highlighted the audio track you're working on, right? You've got the little red record button on, and you've clicked the little orange button with the speaker on it, to enable monitor playback?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yes yes it's all set up properly, i don't understand why it's not working, i feel like throwing the whole thing at the wall
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : don't! it'll really be borken if you do that u idiot
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : you haven't got anything soloed on the mixer?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i don't think so? how do i tell?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : look all the way on the left hand side of the mixer, there's a little button with an "S" on it. If that's glowing, something is soloed.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : nope.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Hang on, let me think. This is hard without my workstation in front of me.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : your doing all this from memory?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : eyesore is really good at this. some of us think it's nigel under a fake name
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ha ha, not bloody likely
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I wish, I wouldn't be sat here in this bloody office if I were. Sorry, people keep coming in and asking me to fix stupid shit on the database. You still having problems, Furious?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's really weird. if i enable on the other track, i can hear myself there. but i can't record on that one, it's already got a take on it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You do know you can record multiple takes on the same channel, right? You just can't play them back at the same time. But now you've said that, I know exactly what the problem is. Go back to the mixer, and just above the fader, there's a little section that says "input" or "routing" or something like that
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : input routing?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's the one. Click on that, and see if it says IN1 or IN2. You want to make it the same as the one that *is* working.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : right. it says in2, the other one says in1
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : change it and see if that gives you sound
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yup. that fixed it. cheers!

 

Just as I felt a little swell of pride at finally having worked out the problem, the screen name winked off and SleepFuriously was gone from the conversation. I don't know why it irked, but it did. It wasn't like I was expecting effusive praise and offers to bear my children and carry my books home from school, but just a token of appreciation or gesture of thanks would have been nice? Oh, well. Boys on the internet. How they took other people for granted. Then again, I supposed it was so easy to forget that the glowing names on the screen were actually other human beings and not just extensions of one's own computer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Loophole erupts into flamewars when the fangirls decide to respond to the boys being sexist by starting a thread dedicating to objectifying the boys in Radiohead.
> 
> And Lucy works on her remix, with some promising results.

Slowly, the Producers' part of the forum started outgrowing the Radiohead part of the forum. People had started to share their other music, not just their tracks for the Loophole competition. SubterraneanHomesickAllen suggested we put together a covers compilation, which really brought the lurkers out of the woodwork. Even PrincessTelex contributed a track - a wonky, off-kilter cover of Karma Police in which she revealed confident piano playing, but a tremulous, hesitant and rather pretty voice. People were really friendly and encouraging in a way I found really inspiring. For the most part, people helped each other out, instead of making a dick-waving contest out of it, or tearing one another down - though there would be an occasional bout of good-humoured fun-poking if SleepFuriously wandered online in the middle of the night and naively asked something dumb like "how the %£&* do i shot compression?" I noted with amusement that he had stopped demanding help from Jonny and started asking immediately for me. It was funny; in an odd way he seemed to focus like a lens to diffuse tension. Instead of arguing with one another, the more aggressive young men could at least unite in their agreement that SleepFuriously was completely batshit.

After a few weeks, we had nearly a dozen contributing producers sharing their work - the best of the new bunch were a mysterious and rather loopy and off the wall FREE NOIZE artist called DeusExMachina, a minimal techno producer from Melbourne who went by the handle of Worrywort and a completely bonkers but rather hilarious electroclash obsessive with the screen name MizzTing who seemed to switch gender based on his or her mood.

It was a dynamic mixture of people, that was for certain. There were some heated discussions, though I had to admit I was pleased that although the arguments grew passionate, they never quite seemed to spill over into the outright flamewars that had destroyed other internet communities I'd known. The only thread that really threatened to go over the line was, yet again, a controversy that PrincessTelex accidentally kicked off, which spiralled out of control while I had spent the evening out at an excruciatingly boring experimental film that one of Jack's mates had directed.

 

> **WOMEN IN ELECTRONIC MUSIC**
> 
>  
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : so i'm only just starting to learn how to produce, but I'm just curious. where are all the ladies at? are female music producers rarer than hens teeth? am i just looking in the wrong place? seems like every electronic act i get into, the men do all the production, and the girls are just there to sing. where are the female music producers? i'm feeling really weird and kind of on my own here.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : i can't think of any to be honest. women just aren't technically minded, they lack the math gene or something
> 
> **Worrywort** : That's total bullshit and you know it! Women have been at the heart of electronic music from Delia Derbyshire on!
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : what does it matter, the gender of the person making the music? especially in electronic music. electronic music is so totally post-gender. just listen to the music you like, and be inspired by it, telex. why does it make a difference if it's a man or a woman?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Honey, you are just looking IN THE RONG PLACES. I know of LOADS of female electronic music producers. Peaches. Chicks On Speed. LeTigre. Blechtum from Blechdom. Miss Kitten. Loads of fab ladies tearing up the dance floor.
> 
> **Worrywort** : Ellen Allien. Magda. Andrea Parker. Mira Calix. Just to name a few off the top of my head? There are so many!
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : Delia Derbyshire, Daphne Oram, Laurie Spiegel, all really influential in the history of electronic music
> 
> **Windowlicker** : mira calix doesn't actually produce anything. i read that autechre actually write all of her stuff and she just stands onstage hitting buttons on her laptop.
> 
> **Worrywort** : what a load of sexist shit! Where on earth did you get that idea from? Sources, please. Back it up or GTFO.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : i can't remember where I read it. on watmm or one of the warp forums.
> 
> **Worrywort** : like I said, sexist tripe. It's the same shit they've said about every female musician since day one. They said the same thing about Ellen Allien, oh, it's just her boyfriend doing everything. And it's bullshit.
> 
> **KidAdie** : I cannot believe we are ten posts into this thread and no one has mentioned the goddess that is
> 
> _MassiveSexyPictureOfBjork.jpg_
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : I'D HIT IT
> 
> **Windowlicker** : yeah, i'd smash her pasty.
> 
> **KidAdie** : WOULD SMASH INTO MOLECULES. BEYOND MOLECULES. CONSTITUENT ATOMS.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : why do you guys always have to be so gross?
> 
> **Windowlicker** : as if you haven't started a million "omg thom yorke is so hott i want to have his babies" fangirl threads yourself
> 
> **Worrywort** : at least PrincessTelex's Thom Yorke threads are *on topic*. Unlike you guys and your billion and one Lindsay Lohan or Zooey Béchamel Would Smash threads over on the main forum
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : Bjork isn't even a proper producer. She's just a singer. She's about as much of a producer as Beyonce. That's why always gets Graham Massey or Nellie Hooper or Matmos to create the music.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : who's nellie hooper? i don't think i know her.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : you're so DUMB, telexie. nellie hooper is the BLOKE out of massive attack.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i know who massive attack are, dumbass
> 
> **Worrywort** : DeusExMachina, this is just the same old sexism dressed up in different clothes. Bjork co-produced Post, Homogenic and did most of Vespertine herself. Talk to ANY of her collaborators and they'll tell you she has extremely well-defined ideas as to how she wants the music to sound; if anything, her weakness is as an engineer, NOT as a producer/musician. She attended the Reykjavik Music Conservatory from the ages of 5 to 15 and has been recording since she was 11. It's pure sexism to believe she has NO input into her sound.
> 
> **BearHunt** : I cannot believe this thread has got to 20 posts and no one has mentioned the GREATED FEMALE MUSIC PRODUCER OF ALL TIME
> 
> _MassivePhotoOfKateBushNipples.jpg_
> 
> WOULD SMASH INTO SUBATOMIC PARTICLES
> 
> **KidAdie** : what about Cassy, you guys? She is so fit. Would smash into quarks and leptons.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : If we're going to talk about the hottest women in music, there's no way you can leave out my future wife, POLLY JEAN HARVEY. I think I just came, even just looking at her amazing ass.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : PJ Harvey doesn't even have an ass.
> 
> **KidAdie** : yeah you wanna talk nice ass, can we get a picture of Beyonce up in here?
> 
> _BeyonceFabulousBootie.jpg_
> 
> Oh yeah. I know it's wrong, and Jay-Z would kick my arse, but... would smash hall of shame.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i can't help but think this thread has become quite disrespectful to the artists involved. it's weird to me, that you'd want to judge producers based on whether you want to sleep with them, rather than how good their tracks are. (it's also weird to me that you'd want to sleep with someone based on what they look like, rather than who they are and what they're like, but that's a personal thing.) mainly i just don't think this kind of thing is helpful to princess telex, or other aspiring female musicians. this kind of leering schoolboy behaviour actually makes me slightly ashamed to be a man. not to mention, polly jean might be one of the most talented musicians and songwriters i've ever had the pleasure to hear - but she's a guitarist, so she hardly counts as electronic music
> 
> **Windowlicker** : oh fuck off and your fucken dictionary posts furious. all these fucking l l o o n n g g ass posts are right doing my head in
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : "ashamed to be a man?" ur batshit nuts, furious
> 
> **Worrywort** : no, SleepFuriously is right. And I can't help but wonder, what PrincessTelex was saying in the first post - if this might be one of the reasons why there are so few female electronic musicians, if this is the kind of treatment they can expect?
> 
> **JennyGreenwood(NotReally)** : I'm sorry to butt in, this is just my opinion, but I think that Worrywort might be onto something? And to reply to what TalkShowHost was saying, no offence, but actually, I think it kind of does matter? I really relate to what PrincessTelex said - I've been trying to learn how to use a sampler, because I really want to enter the competition. But it's really hard, when you see no other women doing it. Or the ones who are doing it, they get loads of shit for it. (sorry for swearing.) Again, this is just my opinion, and sorry, I don't mean to ruffle anyone's feathers. But this is really kind of depressing.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : jenny greenwood? JENNY EFFING GREENWOOD? for fucks sake what is WITH all the fangirls on this forum today? we have one thread about girls in music and all these fangirls come crawling out of the woodwork?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Jenny, my love, you just get yourself out there and you do your thing, you hear, girl? If you can't find any female role models, then you go out there and you BE your own role model.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : MizzTing, you fucking freak, what are you a girl again today?
> 
> **MizzTing** : hush your mouth, child. You know I eat little virgin pussy-boys like you FOR BREAKFAST WITH HOT SAUCE. Flyin' my freak flag proudly. Now I'm off to start a "THOM-BOY YORKE: WOULD SMASH INTO BREADCRUMBS AND FRY HIM UP WITH BUTTER YUM YUM" thread, are you with me, Telexie and Jenny?

 

So I got home from the theatre, slightly tipsy from stopping at the pub afterwards, and found a thread entitled:

 

> **THOM-BOY YORKE: WOULD SMASH INTO BREADCRUMBS AND FRY HIM UP WITH BUTTER YUM YUM WHERE MY FANGIRLS AT?** (53 new answers): This thread has been locked by SubterraneanHomesickAllen
> 
>  
> 
> Giggling slightly, I opened the thread, to be greeted by a barrage of huge, hi-res images of Thom Yorke, flying by in all his luscious, pouting glory, interspersed with very angry outbursts from Windowlicker and DeusExMachina. Trying to suppress my laughter, I paged to the bottom to see why Allen had locked it. The last few pages before it disappeared into clusterfuck were hilarious.
> 
>  
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : he's always showing his tummy in pictures! have you seen the ones from l.a. where he's actually got his shirt off? let me see if i can find the photos...
> 
> _MassiveThomYorkeNippleShot.jpg_
> 
> _WhyHelloTharThomsBellyButton.jpg_
> 
> _ShirtlessOMGHyperventilatingAtThoseShoulderBlades.jpg_
> 
> So hot!
> 
> **MizzTing** : OMG look at him! He always wears such baggy clothes you would not even KNOW what he is hiding under there. I love a man with broad shoulders and skinny little hips, mmm-mmm.
> 
> **JennyGreenwood(NotReally)** : I'm sorry to interrupt again, but Princess Telex, you don't happen to have any shirtless pictures of Jonny, do you? By any chance? I'm only asking for a friend, of course.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : let me see. i don't think i have any shirtless, but i certainly have ones from the early 90s when he was really fond of wearing little tiny crop tops that hitched up and revealed ~everything~
> 
> _JonnysJuttingHipbones.jpg_
> 
> _GreenwoodTreasureTrail.jpg_
> 
> _AllFringeAndLips.jpg_
> 
> **MizzTing** : He was such a pretty little thing, wasn't he? I dunno, though. He might be just that little bit too feminine for me, though. I like my ladies feminine and my men manly, if you know what I mean. However, *this* particular hunk of manhood...
> 
> _EdsPirateShirtSlashedToTheWaist.jpg_
> 
> oooh-ee, come to the Big Tent, Captain O'Brien, because you are about to get Cirque de So Laid!
> 
> **JennyGreenwood(NotReally)** : Oh, but that's exactly the thing with Jonny. It's the contrast between how gentle, and mild-mannered and elegant he looks, and the way he treats his guitar, like he's so passionate, and almost brutal, like he has these hidden depths of pent-up aggression, that he only even vents in these explosions of fury and lust on his guitar. He's so controlled, it just makes you wonder what he's hiding. If he fucks anything like he plays guitar... just, wow.
> 
> **Jonny** : haha, my wife says she's jealous, sometimes, of the way I treat my guitar
> 
> **JennyGreenwood(NotReally)** : ZOMG!
> 
> **JennyGreenwood(NotReally)** : I'm so sorry. I only asked for a friend. I'll shut up now.
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : hahaha, I so knew it. If I were an ugly, weird-looking bloke like Thom or Jonny, I would so just come in threads like this all the time, and read them, and just BASK.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : OMG WTF IS WRONG WITH U PPL?!?!? did u forget that members of the band actually read this forum? threads like this make me just despair for humanity
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : what? compared to the shit that the boys were saying in my female electronic musicians thread, i thought mizzting & jenny & i were actually being pretty tame
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : fuck this shit. i'm locking this now. enough.
> 
> \----------------------
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm going to reopen this thread. I've read it, and I don't see anything offensive in here - certainly not as offensive as what was going on in the Female Electronic Musicians thread. I've read both threads, and this just seems like a double standard to me. Pop Stars are judged on their sex appeal. That's part of the deal. What's problematic, to me, is that it seems like female musicians get judged *solely* on their sex appeal, often to the exclusion or denial of their actual agency in the production of their music. I think that's actually a very good topic for discussion - and we should address that on the Women In Electronic Music thread. But I also think that MizzTing is right when she quoted Queer Theory back at the start of this thread - things like this subvert the gender paradigm in a very necessary way. What's wrong is how one-sided it is, that it's always all about the straight-boy gaze. Let's open up the floor to the female gaze, to the queer gaze, it seems only fair.
> 
> **MizzTing** : hear, hear, Eyesore! let the perving commence!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Also, given Jonny's contribution to this thread, I don't think he read it as insulting or disrespectful. I might be wrong (fnar) and feel free to correct me if I've misunderstood, but I'm going to leave the thread open. (Though I think Jenny will probably thank you if Jonny doesn't contribute to it again. That is, if we can peel her down off the ceiling.)
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : thank you, eyesore
> 
> **Windowlicker** : brown-noser
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ok i'm going to defer to you on queer theory, eyesore. i'll let the thread stay open. you lot can have your eye candy.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : mmmm, eye candy. Wow. I've never seen those photos of Thom shirtless before. He's... wow.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : omg eyesore totally wants to ~do it~ with thom yorke
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : And what if I do? How the fuck is that different from you wanting to "smash" Bjork, as you so eloquently put it?
> 
> **MizzTing** : no difference a' tall. You fly your freak flag, Eyesore. Amen, sister.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What? He's a really attractive man. OK, I'm a bit drunk, but... I think he's really lovely.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : but he's such a weird-looking little freak. like, he is seriously ugly.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah, i don't get it. i agree, thom is one of the most talented musicians of his generation - maybe of all time - but he is just not physically attractive. jonny is alright - no offense, m8 - i'm a bit drunk too, so i'll admit, i'm totally straight, but if i were going to have a gay experience with anyone, it would probably be jonny greenwood. but thom? i've read scientific studies on what makes men attractive, symmetry, and eyebrow to jaw ratio, stuff like that. he's just weird-looking.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : shut up, thom is beautiful!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That shit is all nonsense, Allen. Beauty is not really something that's quantifiable like that. It's something that's really personal, unique to that individual. People aren't beautiful because they conform to some arbitrary physical standard, they're beautiful because they are unique and so uniquely *them*. Thom Yorke is beautiful because... because of the utter, singular Thom-ness of him. Because he couldn't possibly be anyone else if he tried, and he would never *try* to be. That's what makes him so beautiful. The fact that he just puts it out there, all that he is, in a way that makes him so vulnerable, and yet that vulnerability and that individuality, that is his beauty.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : that's actually v v lovely, eyesore
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore:** Also, his mouth. Totally his mouth, his lips, but more the beautiful things that come out of them.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : you totally want to do him, don't you?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't know why you're so hung up on this, WL. I mean, I've got a partner! I'm totally married! But I do just think that Thom is beautiful, in every way, physically, mentally and creatively, and this thread can run forever as far as I'm concerned.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i guess i see what you're saying. it's like, with music sometimes. i hear a piece of music, and it's technically completely perfect, like, it's well crafted, and beautifully produced, but it's somehow completely soulless. it just sounds boring and dead. but then i hear something that sounds like it was recorded in a tin can, the production quality is awful, but there's just something about the music that is just so emotional and so amazing that i just can't stop listening to it, over and over
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, yes and no. Because that's a slippery slope. People end up thinking that because something haphazard and slapdash and spontaneous can be so beautiful, that it's the slapdash nature of it that *makes* it beautiful. Instead of the spontaneity and the immediacy of the emotion. I don't like people who fetishise technique to the exclusion of all else, but I also can't stand it when people go to the opposite extreme, where people do that indie faux-naif thing, where they end up fetishising incompetence.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : that's actually a v v good point. i struggle with this constantly
> 
> **KidAdie** : that's actually coz ur a shit producer and you don't even know how to route your sound inputs, furious.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah. well.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Leave off, Adie, we all had to start somewhere. You didn't even know how to split a channel for side-chaining until I showed you.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : can we actually have a new thread about this? coz i really want to talk about this, the tension between spontaneity and technical perfection, between craft and emotion. but the thread title here is doing my head in
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ha ha that's just your latent homophobia, furious. give in, we are all gay for the gaydiohead. but ur right. this is a good question, i'll start a new thread

 

> **TAKING SIDES: TECHNICAL PROWESS VS SPONTANEITY/EMOTION**
> 
>  
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : for further discussion by SleepFuriously and LonelyIsAnEyesore. a spin-off from the hot buttered thom thread. is there a tension between technical know-how and/or spontaneity and passion? which is more important to you?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't think it's necessary to take sides! You can have both. It's Furious who saw a tension between them, not me. What did you mean by that, Furious?
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : fuck the rules. fuck technical proficiency. it's all about the passion, man.
> 
> **Worrywort** : But you have to know what the rules are, before you can break them. Otherwise it's just noise.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : NOIZE R00LS OK
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : this is highly likely to x-post bcuz it's hard for me to articulate where my head is at on this subject. i agree with worrywort, you have to know what the rules are in order to break them. completely. but at the same time, i recognise that when recording, the first or second take is almost always the best. but it's so hard to accept that, and it's very easy to want to go over and over something in the studio. you see musicians try to go at it until they've got it absolutely note-perfect, but they've sucked all the soul and the spontaneity out of it. but mebbe that's a different question
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I never do more than three takes of anything. If I don't get it in the first couple of passes, then it's not going to happen. But that does rely on getting your practice in *before* you record. All those boring things like theory and scales and rehearsing and getting things right before you even press record.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : you? scales?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i just always thought of you as a gear-head, never really thought of you as a 'scales' sort of person
> 
> **Worrywort** : No i think Eyesore is absolutely spot on. It's really important to have the theory and the practice down before you can start experimenting
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i don't know about that, though. i keep thinking about all those early post-punk bands. u2. joy division. echo and the bunnymen. and you listen to their early stuff when they didn't really know what they were doing and it's like "a red guitar, 3 chords and the truth" y'know? there's a kind of ferocious purity to it - and even though i love their later stuff - it often seems like after they've attained a level of technical competency where they can do more elaborate material and adventurous arrangements, they still keep trying to get back to that earlier purity
> 
> **Windowlicker** : U2? fuck that shit! you have the worst taste in music, you fag
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : windowlicker, leave it out. if you don't stop with the homophobic shit, i'm slapping you with a temp-ban.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Don't call people fags as an insult, Windowlicker. There's nothing wrong with being gay. Show some creativity. If you want to really insult someone, call them a WAV. Useless, slow, hard to read thing that takes up loads of space on your hard drive - now that's an insult.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : You wanna check your history, too, m8. U2 were a massive influence on Radiohead.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But, anyway, to reply to Furious - is it actually the technical incompetence those bands are trying to recapture, or is it the spontaneity and the sense of newness? That state of ferocious purity is more down to the state of experimenting, of not having a map, of breaking out of ingrained habits.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but isn't that state of not-having-a-map what we're talking about?
> 
> **Jonny** : Not having a map, that's a good way of putting it. Because picking up basic technical competency is a bit like learning to walk. It's not that you want to forget how to put one foot in front of the other, you just want to pick a new road to go walk down. Does that make more sense, Furious?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's exactly it. That fetishisation of incompetence that people get into, it's like crawling on your hands and knees, but still going down the same road. When it's the road you want to change, not the method of walking.
> 
> **Jonny** : It's a bit like when I decided to teach myself how to play the banjo. I didn't do it with the aim of becoming a shit banjo-player, I just wanted to learn a new way of thinking about music. Pop my head into a new place, and out of bad habits.
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : I don't know why we're even discussing this. Passion is the single most important thing in music. Without passion, all the technical ability in the world is nothing. Soulless. Staid. Impotent. Technical proficiency without without soul can go eat a bag of dicks as far as I'm concerned.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : I don't think anyone disagrees with that, TSH. Not even BearHunt at his most "prog is king" moments.
> 
> **BearHunt** : Fuck off. I love spontaneity and passion in music. I just don't think you get it with banks of sequenced computers and mindless digital editing.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i get as frustrated as anyone else, sitting staring at a computer grid for hours on end until my eyes go square, but of the many things that digital editing is, 'mindless' is hardly one of them
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : ha ha, Furious, you're hilarious, I know that feeling ;-)
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : BearHunt has a point, though. I've hear a lot of electronic music that's so completely cerebral it feels utterly sterile.
> 
> **Worrywort** : That's the fault of the artist. Not the fault of the medium. I've heard technically competent guitar-wank that's boring as fuck, too.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's kind of a straw man argument, though, TBH. It's like arguing between which is more important, your heart or your head. You need both.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but i know lots of people who do privilege the head over the heart. that's a really dangerous way of thinking, you end up genetically modified crops and capitalism and the crippling third world debt
> 
> **JennyGreenwood(NotReally)** : Um, this is just my opinion, but I don't think that's true, SleepFuriously. No offence, but I live in the Midwest - yeah, total corn country - and I see the way that American politics is played, especially by the Republicans, and so much of it is just this appeal to emotion - usually fear, with a heavy dose of religious sentiment - instead of being rational about things or looking at the evidence. Sorry, but that scares me.
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : it doesn't matter if they are going with their heads or their hearts, it's because they're right-wing dickheads. That's what both super-capitalist "profit over people" arseholes *and* the reactionary god-bothers who want to repeal the Law of Evolution have in common. It's not head vs heart, it's Right vs Left.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : oh god can we just NOT be stereotypical radiohead fans for just a minute, and leave the politics out of it and just talk about music? kthxbye
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : that's a good point jenny. and tsh, i want to agree with you, but i just think we have to move beyond party politics of 'right' and 'left' because people on the left can be dickheads, too. look at tony b. liar and the people he has around him. new labour. those ppl are soulless and they scare me. but i guess it just goes to prove what eyesore was saying, that either head or heart without the other is dangerous. it's like that quote at the end of madonna's video for express yourself: without the heart there can be no understanding between the hand and the mind
> 
> **BearHunt** : Madonna? Are you kidding me?
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : windowlicker's right. u have the worst taste on this forum, you wav
> 
> **Worrywort** : Shut up, Madonna is awesome.
> 
> **KidAdie** : yeah, I won't hear a word said against Madonna. Especially Express Yourself, that's a classic. Total banger.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't know. I love that song - and the video is a classic, just for the crotch-grabbing scene. (God, can you imagine if Thom Yorke did a crotch-grabbing move in a video? PrincessTelex would absolutely explode.) But something about the gendering of that quote, as it applies to that video, has always bothered me.
> 
> **MizzTing** : HELLO!?!? are you trying to have a conversation about gendering in Madonna videos without me? I don't think so!
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : adie knows where it's at. top choon.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Don't get me wrong, MizzTing. I love Madonna! I dunno, it just bothers me. Because everything else about that song is so amazing, and so empowering. (And of course, who doesn't like a smattering of amazing house piano? Well, BearHunt and DeusExMachina, clearly. But they are RONG.) But it's just the way that the 'heart' is automatically positioned as a woman, while 'mind' and 'hands' are men. That bothers me.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but i thought that was the whole message of the video - that head and hands, without heart, are nothing. and masculine, without feminine, is nothing
> 
> **MizzTing** : Girlfren' better love Madge or we will have WORDS.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : why does the heart have to be feminine, though? do men not have hearts? do women not have brains?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : alright, point taken. i'm hardly the most masculine of men anyway. hell, i've been known to wear eyeliner
> 
> **Windowlicker** : you utter and complete wav!
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : but you've accidentally hit on something that's always bothered me about madonna. like, i recognise she's a genius, and she's changed the face of modern music. i'm not a hater. but, at the same time, her music always sounded so, i dunno. calculated? for a woman who sings about love and sex and the heart, she can be very very cold and clinical about it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : And what's wrong with that? Maybe that's what I like about her.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : madonna's a v v smart woman. she never gets enough credit for that. she's incredibly intelligent. i admire her intelligence, even if i don't always admire her ethics
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : madonna has ethics?
> 
> **MizzTing** : course Madonna has ethics. She's done a lot of charity work, she just doesn't shout about it like Bono or Angelina Jolie or whoever. She founded a whole orphanage and a school for girls in Malawai.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : a school which has been mired in controversy and corruption since the project opened, but like i said, the ethics doesn't come into it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : X-post to Allen now. That criticism - calculating. Her intelligence. That's what goes against that whole stereotype of woman-as-heart. And I guess it also kind of bothers me about that whole heart/brain or technique/passion dichotomy. Not just because it's a false dichotomy. But because it's so coded, as to who gets to be what. And it's not just women that that gets used against. It gets used against black people, too. That when people talk about a black artist, they'll talk about their passion, and their 'soul' and make out like it's all this noble savage instinctive heart-stuff, and completely leave out the cerebral or intellectual or theoretical content of their art.
> 
> **MizzTing** : well at least she's doing *something* I mean, what are you doing, Furious, except talking bout it on the internet? x-post YES, Eyesore OTM. Like the way, when people talk about Prince (sorry, yes, I am one of *those* Prince fans) and they talk about 'soul' like it's some primal untamed juju that just seeps up out of the ground in this kind of a naive genius kind of way, when he is a seriously smart guy who works really hard on writing these incredibly complex, musically advanced arrangements - but does he ever get the credit for that?
> 
> **KidAdie** : MizzTing and Eyesore ON THE MONEY
> 
> **KidAdie** : p.s. Prince r00ls
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah, i hear you. when i was at school, my music teacher used to say the same thing about miles davis. people forget that he was a serious music student, the guy was classically trained - he went to julliard ffs - but people like to leave that out because it's not part of the romance of jazz
> 
> **Jonny** : No, I think it actually is part of the romance of *Miles Davis* - it's completely part of the legend, classically trained prodigy who gave it up to play jazz.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : fuck i should know better than to try and talk about miles davis with jonny greenwood around
> 
> **Jonny** : Yes. Yes, you should.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I warned him that this was gonna happen, that he was going to intimidate fans off the forum if he posted too much. Shall I ban him off the thread, Furious?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : hahahahahaha jonny ur sacked from the forum
> 
> **Jonny** : Oh noes! I'll shut up again, promise. *zips lips*

 

"Are you still on that thing?"

I looked about me blindly, blinking until I realised the source of the interruption was my dazed-looking husband, glaring at me from the door to the bedroom, wrapped in a bathrobe, his hair all standing on end like he'd been woken from a deep sleep. "What? What time is it?"

"It's two in the fucking morning. You've been keeping me up, banging away on the keyboard and cackling to yourself. Don't you have to work in the morning?"

I glanced down at the monitor, shocked to realise that three hours had disappeared in the wink of an eye. "No. Tomorrow's Thursday. Today, I guess."

"Come to bed."

"I..." I looked down at the webpage, the cursor blinking enticingly in the Add Reply box. Christ, I had planned on spending Thursday adding the finishing touches to my Loophole contest entry, but I'd be useless if I spent all night staying up arguing about jazz with SleepFuriously. What was SleepFuriously doing up anyway? Didn't he ever sleep? He was British, or at least his IP Address had been. Maybe the screen name was ironic.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : speaking of sleeping furiously, it is definitely time for me to do so. (ha ha now Windowlicker will accuse me of wanting to "do" him, too.) You guys behave without me. MizzTing, you have my permission to whack Jonny with a banhammer if he misbehaves.
> 
> **Jonny** : Ooh, err, Mizzez!
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : FUCK is that the time? what am i still doing up? i have to work tomorrow!
> 
> **Worrywort** : ha ha, this is when I love living in Australia, it's the middle of the afternoon for me. Night, Eyesore.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ha ha, you can "do" me anytime eyesore
> 
> **MizzTing** : me, too, Eyesore, I'll bend whichever way for you ;-)
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Nope, sorry guys, I know I'm irresistible, but the only person I would be remotely willing to compromise my marriage for is Thom Yorke. Logging off now. Behave! Bye!

 

I did my best to stay off the Loophole forum for the next day, hungover and sleep deprived as I was. Instead, I opened up my DAW and started working on my remix. With a shock, I realised how long it had been since I actually opened up the computer to work on music, instead of dicking around online. Pretty much since we'd started the forum, in fact. This was ridiculous. For all the time I was spending helping other people with their production, I was barely spending any time at all on my own.

I finished off the remix fairly quickly - I'd been thinking it over in my head for so long that I knew exactly how I wanted it to sound before I started work, and it went quickly, falling into place easily. When I had a rough mix I liked, I found I didn't want to lose momentum. So instead, I opened up a new file and started quickly sketching out the bare bones of a new song that had been rattling around my head. I felt like a woman possessed, completely taken over by the song, as if it were physically shaking me and demanding that it be written. It was like all of the themes that we'd been discussing on the forum all week coalesced inside my head and fell out in a weird, twisted piece of music. Honestly, at times like that, I felt like the music was something I was barely even in control of, like I was just a conduit and the notes were just flowing through me onto the computer. I felt vaguely dazed after I'd finished, like I wasn't entirely sure where the afternoon had gone. And yet, when I stopped to make dinner for Jack, then went back to listen to it in the evening, the song still held me rapt.

"Play that again?" asked Jack. I jumped, as I hadn't even noticed him sneaking up behind me. "Is it new?"

"Yeah, it's just something I've been working on this afternoon," I shrugged, preparing the mental cringe for the inevitable snark that was to follow.

"No, that's really good," he observed, his head cocked as if he were listening really intently. "Best thing you've written in ages."

Of course. There could never be such a thing as a compliment from Jack without a sting in its tail. He thought everything I'd written in the past five years had been total shit. In fact, pretty much everything I'd done since we'd been married was shit. But I pushed it out of my head and pulled the cursor back to the beginning to play the song again.

"No, I mean it, Lucy. There's something about that track, something really special." He paused, humming along with the twisting but insistent melody. "That's not your entry for the Radiohead competition, is it?"

"No, it's just something I was mucking about with this afternoon. I'll play you the remix I did for the Loophole." Barely daring to hope that this might be a glimpse of a new, supportive husband who was willing to be positive about my work, I opened the other track and hit play.

Jack listened for about a minute, then shook his head. "Nah, that one's no good. Put the other one back on. You should ring your old label and see if they'd be interested in releasing it. That's got to be a hit, get some money coming in."

I flinched. For a supposedly experimental avant-garde artist, Jack was positively obsessed with making money. The idea that I might have made a beautiful thing for the sheer joy of making a beautiful thing, it would never have crossed his mind. "Those crooks? No way. I'd rather release it myself for free."

"More fool you," Jack shrugged, and ambled off again, humming my song to himself. But even as he went, I had to admit, he was right. The odd, haunting melody stayed with me, even after the song had faded out.

I was filled with the sudden urge to ask the kids on the Loophole what they thought. No, that was absurd. What did I care if they liked it? And besides, the thought of Jonny listening to my music was, well, terrifying. And yet, it still remained my first thought, wanting to share it with the community, with my new friends. Oh, what the heck. I could just rip it to MP3 and post it on the forum with a request for comments or criticism. I had given out criticism, encouragement and suggestions to other artists who had posted works in progress on the site - why was I so afraid to submit my own work to the same treatment? 

But what to call it? I glanced around the flat as the DAW rendered a compressed version. Axiomatic Systems of Mathematics declared an untouched book on the top shelf. Jack had half a degree in Maths, and never let anyone forget it. Fine. I'd call the track Axiomatics. I relabelled the MP3 and set my FTP to uploading it to my website, then carefully crafted a post to the Loophole about it. Not too grovelling, yet not too cocky, for fear of being perceived as arrogant. Here's my new track, let me know what you think. Check it out, here's a thing I've been working on. Here's this weird little thing that just sprung into my head, Jonny don't you dare listen to it. I typed in something randomly self effacing as the upload completed, then copied the URL into the box and hit submit.

I shouldn't have worried so much. Everyone was really nice about it! Even Windowlicker, who I thought was going to be rude and sarcastic and call me a wav, popped in to say "CHOON!" PrincessTelex typed a delighted squeal and told me it was the best thing since Idioteque, Worrywort buzzed with approval and asked how I did the filter envelopes on the snare rushes, and KidAdie even asked if he could have a 320 to play next time he DJed. I had such a warm feeling all evening as various people dropped into my thread and told me how much they liked it. 

OK, I was sure they were just being nice because I was a mod, and maybe they were buttering me up, or perhaps they were just repaying me in some small way for all the technical advice I'd given and bugs I'd fixed, but it did make me feel good. Allen actually popped up with some quite good technical advice, suggesting that I let the riff just before the drop run a little bit longer to ramp up the tension, and told me to tighten the EQ on the bass just slightly, in order to make it pop. And just as I was replying to say thank you, another post appeared at the bottom of the thread that made the bottom drop out of my stomach, to be replaced by a cloud of fluttering butterflies.

 

> **Jonny** : Just so I don't intimidate any fans out there, I wanted to let you know, I did not download this track. I did not load it on my MP3 player and play it three times in a row, either. And I certainly did not put it on the speakers and play it for Thom, who did not bop his head around like a mad ferret, or make me play it again. At all, ever.

 

I might actually have shrieked aloud. At any rate, Jack poked his head in from the bedroom and wanted to know if I was alright. For a moment, I considered telling him, but then just thought it was too much to explain. He would laugh at Jonny, he would laugh at how intimidated I was by him, and if I told him that two members of my favourite band actually liked my track, he would only use it as ammunition as to why I was wasting my life and should really be doing so much more, if only I would get off my arse and work, like he had. Or words to that effect.

So I smiled and lied and told him I was just pleased because I got a good review on the forum. 11 good reviews, so far, including Thom's apparent ferret-bopping, but who was counting?

And then MizzTing popped into the thread to tell me she wanted to fuck my bassbins, and I burst out laughing.

"You know, if you spent as much time promoting yourself as you did mucking about on that forum, you'd have a hit record by now."

Fuck you, Jack. Thom Yorke just bopped his head to my track. Even you cannot spoil this.

And then a name flashed on at the bottom of the active users list. SleepFuriously was reading the thread, but he left without leaving a message. For a moment, I twinged with annoyance, remembering the time that I fixed his monitoring problem with only the barest of acknowledgements, but then I tried to be more charitable. Maybe he hadn't heard it yet. He had said in the past he had a really slow connection, maybe he just hadn't finished downloading it. Or, maybe he just didn't like it. It was possible. I wouldn't be hurt. What did it matter, what some random stranger on the internet thought about my song? My friends liked it, that was what was important.

And Thom Yorke had bopped his head like a mad ferret to it. Thank you, god. Or Jonny Greenwood as the case may be.

But then my email pinged in another window, and I saw a message inviting me to a private conversation on the Loophole. I had forgotten about private conversations - SubterraneanHomesickAllen had made them available to all users, in case anyone needed to get in touch with a moderator privately, but no one ever seemed to use them.

 

> **SleepFuriously** : i'm amazed. this is fantastic. r u signed?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : thanks, Furious. :D But no, I'm not.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : u should be. i bet we can make this happen.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : that's very kind of you to say, but extremely unlikely
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : u never kno
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh and btw, thank u for fixing my computer a few weeks ago. i really appreciated that, and it was rude of me to rush off w/o thanking u
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : ah, it's alright. You turned out to be a decent poster in the end. Send me one of your tracks some day, OK? x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real Radiohead agree to do a live webcast for The Loophole, but unfortunately Lucy has to miss it because of her partner's work.
> 
> And the forum's pet troll, SleepFuriously,reveals himself to have unexpected talents.

I was at work the next day when I got a frantic IM ping from Allen.

 

> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : omg eyesore, we're on! they're going to do it!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Who? Is going to do what?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : radiohead! are going to do a proper production webchat. on the loophole. 
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : they've got a couple of weeks off between tours, jonny said they'd do it from the studio. all of them. or at least, him and thom and nigel
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What, on the Loophole? Can your bandwidth handle that?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : well, if we do it out of uk office hours. 
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i have to get more bandwidth for the forum anyway coz i'd like to put in streaming media so people can upload their mp3s and stuff.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : do we really need that?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : but think how exciting this is! how much promotion we're going to get out of this. 
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : and not just the site, the artists too. you and kidadie and worrywort, you could all get singed off the back of this!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Who says we want to get signed anyway?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : well you might not, but they certainly do
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : When is it? How much time do we have to prepare?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : a week friday. same day the contest opens
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh, fuck. No! Can they not do any other day?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : no. it's just before they fly to japan for a festival, we're lucky to get them
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : *sudden mental image of Jonny sat on a plane, checking the forum*
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ha ha, he would so do it, too. but what's wrong with next friday?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm not in. I've got a thing. It's been booked for ages.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : whatever it is, cancel it. i need you
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : and so does thom yorke, wink wink, nudge nudge
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can't. It's a really big deal for Jack. He's been asked to give a talk as part of a special series on the interface between Science and Art for the ICA
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : jack's your partner?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Yeah. We'd be talking divorce if I didn't go.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : damn. can't you sneak in the back room and check it on your blackberry?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : The ICA is a black hole as far as mobile reception is concerned. :-(
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Fuck! Why does it have to be that day?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i knew it was an act
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What's an act?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : that whole 'i don't want the band members posting here coz i'm so intimidated' thing
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, I'm pissed off I'm going to miss it. Thom Yorke's gonna be on my forum, and I'm going to be stuck with a bunch of art cunts at the ICA?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : well if thom gets his shirt off again, i'll be sure to get a screen grab
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Screengrab? What, is there gonna be a web cam?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yup. whole nine yards.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Fuck! And I'm going to miss this?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah, think of it, eyesore. thom yorke on a webcam and you on the other end of the chat
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : you could be all 'ok we have a request from eyesore in bloomsbury, we need thom to take his shirt off and show his nipples now'
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I hate you! Stop it! That's not fair.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Anyway I thought it was Jonny you were gay for and wanted to see naked
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : who am i kidding, i'm gay for all of them

 

The forum was practically buzzing with excitement when I logged on. There was even a dedicated thread in the members only section, as well as the official announcement, both on the Loophole and the official forum.

 

> **RADIOHEAD OFFICIAL PRODUCTION CHAT 25/07/2003**
> 
>  
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : omg i'm so excited! i can't even think what to ask
> 
> **Windowlicker** : ask if thom will show you his dick
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : you're not big, and you're not clever, you wav
> 
> **KidAdie** : ask how they did that amazing synth sound on _Backdrifts_ I love that crazy spinning sound so much, I've no idea how they did it
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : that song is well sick! i'd love to know how it was made
> 
> **BearHunt** : Ask them about the guitar sound on _Where You End And I Begin_ that's the best song they've done since OK Computer, it sounds like Can.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : it's not inspired by Can, it was inspired by New Order, you idiot
> 
> **BearHunt** : I didn't say it was inspired by, I said it sounded like them, sheesh!
> 
> **JennyGreenwood(NotReally)** : ask them about the drums on _There There_ That was amazing, when they played it live, like a marching band. I'd love to see them do it with a proper drumming group.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm so gutted I'm going to miss this.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : WAHT.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : eyesore, you can't
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry, I've already been through this with Allen. There's no way I can do it. You guys have fun, though.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : why are you missing it eyesore?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : My partner is giving a big talk at the ICA, and no, I can't get out of it.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : fuck the ica, whatever that is. this is radiohead! surely this is more important
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : the ica is quite a big deal to artists. my girlfriend really loves the place. excellent bookshop, too, iirc
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : it's ok, we're all gutted that eyesore can't make it, but still. OMG THIS IS SO EXCITING. RADIOHEAD ARE GONNA DO A LIVE WEBCHAT FOR US
> 
> **Worrywort** : What time is it going to be? Please tell me it's not going to be in the middle of the night, Aussie time. Oh fuck it, I don't care. I'd stay up all night for Radiohead.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Yeah, what time is it going to be? Allen? Jonny? Is it British Summer Time over there? I can never remember if you're two hours behind Berlin or just one.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : are there any questions you want to ask, eyesore? is there anything you want to know? i can make sure they get to them
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Wow. Yeah, I do. I'm going to have to think about it
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : just type them out and put them in a private message to me, we'll make sure they get answered
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : that's really kind, Furious

 

On 25th July, I took the final mix of my Loophole remix to work with me on a datastick, to take advantage of the fast connection to email it without worrying about it timing out. I listened to the track one last time on headphones, trying very hard not to hear all the mistakes, then attached it to an email, and pressed send before I could lose my nerve and change my mind. There, no turning back now. The competition was entered. The forum had finally served the purpose we founded it for - oh but so much more. I couldn't even bear to read it that afternoon, watching everyone's excitement gather momentum as the clock ticked down.

I left home early, went home and changed, put on a clingy white draped gown in a sort of Grecian style that I knew Jack fancied in me, swapped my comfortable shoes for a pair of tottering heels and made my way to the ICA, ready to play the beautiful and doting girlfriend of the artist, even if my heart was miles away - well, miles and nowhere, centred in cyberspace as the Loophole was.

The bus got caught in traffic on Shaftsbury Avenue, and I ended up having to leap off the back of the Routemaster and trot down towards lower Regents Street in my impossible shoes, bumping down the steps onto The Mall and flying into the ICA nearly 20 minutes late. Jack was nowhere to be found, so I made my way into the darkened auditorium, laid out with uncomfortable seats for the lecture. At least it meant I had missed the most awkward part of the evening, the stares as I walked in. I felt so out of place among these people - so very posh, so very... how shall we say... the kind of people who loved to pay great lip service to multiculturalism, but got a bit too overexcited in a rather awkward way if they saw any faces as brown as mine at their actual shows. And though they clearly tried their best to be polite to me in that very precise, overcompensating, Guardian-reader sort of way, I never quite shook the feeling of being vaguely like a zoo animal to them. I clearly made some of them very uncomfortable, and that in turn made me uncomfortable. Jack always told me that was ridiculous, that I had to lose the chip on my shoulder. But there was just something about them that reminded me of those people on the internet who began every comment with "I'm white, by the way." Like, thanks for reminding me that I'm not, in your eyes.

But as I squeezed my way to my assigned seat at the front, I was relieved not to have to make small talk without Jack. Squinting at the programme in the dark, I was relieved to find I'd not missed Jack's talk, but the woman onstage was droning on interminably about intertextuality in sampling technology and recorded sound in a way that made me roll my eyes and want to blow raspberries.

Then the woman walked over to a small mixing desk and started up a laptop, firing up different layers of samples, all at the same time, not cleverly interwoven like a skilful DJ, but just layers of disconnected noise. Oh god, it wasn't Sound Art, was it? Why had no one warned me? She was making serious faces like it was all so very important, but all I could make out were overlapping waves of talking, and violins that sounded like an orchestra tuning up, and then an awful noise like a tube train going round a corner too fast, all scraping metal and sparks.

But then finally, it was over, and after a polite smattering of applause, Jack came out onto the stage. He looked unusually handsome - perhaps it was the flattering stage lightning, but he'd had a haircut and trimmed his beard, and was wearing a royal blue checked shirt I'd bought him that brought out the colour of his eyes. My heart swelled with pride as he stood at the podium, scanning the audience expectantly. Oh god, he was clearly worried I'd not turned up. Leaning forward in my seat, I waved discreetly and caught his eye. He nodded, just acknowledging me, but the tension did not drain out of his face until there was a shuffle in the back of the room, and a group of late-comers were admitted. 

So it wasn't me he was nervously anticipating, it was Mary Worthington from the Arts Council. That old bag! I couldn't stand her, and neither could Jack, nor half of the London arts scene, but she was the deciding signature that handed out Arts Council funding, so the whole lot of them kissed her arse like it was made of roses and kitten-fur. The number of times I'd sat through boring dinners with her, as Jack hung on her every word, while she droned on in that world-weary Received Pronunciation of hers, biting off her vowels like she was the Queen as she yapped on about Francis Bacon or Clement Freud or some ancient icon from another era she'd met at an opening once, in the previous century or maybe the one before. I imagined the Mary Worthingtons of the world clogging up art openings back in Michaelangelo's day. And she was one of the worst of the "I'm British, by the way" crew. She loved her little speeches on "tolerance" and "diversity" as being the great strengths of "The British" but the way she looked right at me as she said it, like, what the fuck? I was born here. I grew up here. Do you think I'm somehow not-British?

Yet still, as she spotted me, and made a bee-line for the empty seat beside me, I had to smile and pretend to be pleased to see her as we air-kissed.

Once Jack started talking, I was able to ignore her, and just concentrate on my husband. He was a good public speaker, charismatic and articulate, with just the right edge of passion to lift his sometimes overly academic subjects into sounding actually quite appealing. It was one of the things I'd first loved about him, his ability to capture and hold a crowd's attention, his eyes shining. His unruly hair always started off smooth and tidy, but ended the talk completely perpendicular, though I never knew quite how it happened. It just seemed the more passionate he was about the topic, the more his curly hair frizzed out about his head, like a young Albert Einstein. It was his appeal to the arts crowd, too, I knew it - this artist who looked like a rock star and talked like a Cambridge Physicist.

For the whole hour of his talk, I forgot about the Loophole, I forgot about Radiohead and Thom Yorke, and the webchat I was missing, just completely caught up in his patter about "assailing the intangible and insubstantial hinterland between mathematics and the arts, because maths is the language of God, and it is the job - no, the duty - of artists to speak the wonders of God's universe." It was all bollocks of course - I knew for a fact that Jack was essentially an atheist, more out of laziness than any philosophical conviction, but Mary Worthington was a staunch attendee of St Paul's Cathedral, so God got routinely trotted out for her benefit.

After his talk was over, he stood back and waited as his 15-minute presentation came up on the main screen. I'd seen it a hundred times before, in preparation, and in different forms at other events, but it was still nice to see it on a wide screen, with a good sound system. The slides were Jack's, the collages and mixed media assemblages that he was known for, but the soundtrack, well, that was almost entirely mine. Alright, Jack would usually pick out the sounds with vague instructions like "I want this bit to sound like bird song" or "Make this bit sound like the throbbing hum of a spaceship's engines," but it was me that either found them or made them, and assembled them, setting them to the rhythm of his pictures. Not that I ever got any credit for it, mind you - except for the occasional brief thank you in a programme. Right at the end of a long stream of dignitaries from the Arts Council and other artists he wanted to impress or brown-nose, there would be that tiny acknowledgement "...last but not least, thanks to my wife." Not "Thank you, Lucy Wildwood for all your patience, both your emotional and financial support, and of course the unacknowledged and uncredited assistance over the years" - just those four words - "thanks to my wife" - like that was all I'd become, an appendage, an accessory, an afterthought.

Still, mustn't grumble. Must stand up and clap and look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and beam with pleasure and adoration when Mary Worthington tells me what a genius my husband is.

Jack finally came out and made his way through his adoring public, stopping for brief chats and more air-kisses, as I went off and bought two glasses of wine at the ICA bar, then deposited one in his hand, kissing him supportively but non-posessively on the cheek before withdrawing to a polite distance to stand and watch him adoringly while he got chatted up by nubile art students and seriously cultured old ladies alike. It was all a bit too much, and I got through my first glass of wine a bit too quickly when I turned and found Luke holding a whole bottle, no doubt purloined from the backstage rider.

"Are you coming to the after-party?" he demanded, leering, and I swear to god he was trying to look down the drapery of my Grecian dress.

"I didn't know there was one," I shrugged, trying to be polite, but though I knew Luke was Jack's very best friend, something about him just made my skin crawl, and I could never quite survive a conversation with him without vaguely wanting to have a bath. It wasn't even that he was that sleazy - he had tried it on exactly once, when Jack and I had first started dating, and I had sent him off with a flea in his ear - but more that he just gave off the impression of being somehow unclean, with dank breath that stank of rotting teeth, and tufts of hair that still bore occasional signs of having been dyed blue or green or some colour that looked not so much unnatural as simply decaying.

"A loft over in Shoreditch. Do you think Jack will spring for a cab?"

"You know as well as I do that Jack's not going anywhere until Mary Worthington has gone."

Oh god, another round of friends wanting to congratulate Jack on his triumph, and another set of air kisses. But it was never me they were interested in, and they never waited to hear an answer to their disinterested enquiries about my music, they just treated me like a secretary and a gatekeeper who could pry Jack away from his current audience.

It was nearly an hour later, and a bottle and a half of free wine before Luke, Jack and I were ensconced in a cab on our way to the East End. As if he still hadn't quite had his fill of adoration, finally Jack decided to ask my opinion of the evening.

"You were brilliant, of course, my darling," I told him, resting my head against his shoulder as I watched the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus slide by outside the window. "Those new slides fit really well into the sequence, and they look much better with the dissolve instead of the cross-fade."

"Yeah, I thought I might hold them a bit longer, but you'll need to readjust the soundtrack to the new length."

"Oh, right." Of course I would, and I'd do it without complaining.

"What did you think of the musician who gave the talk before mine? She's just signed to Fat Cat's avant-classical label, you know. And she's just got a commission from the Danish arts council to score an opera. Why don't you write an opera? I quite fancy spending the summer in Denmark."

I bristled, and resisted the urge to tell him that if writing an opera was so bloody easy, why didn't he do it? But instead I found myself venting my pent-up vitriol on the unfortunate woman. "Oh god, Jack, it's Sound Art. You know I can't stand Sound Art, why didn't you warn me? All that mewling and weird bits of found sound and what sounded like the chatter of old ladies on the bus. It's just so unnecessary. Complete toss!"

Luke burst into laughter, and I flushed with embarrassment as I remembered that he used to be a sound artist, before he got into multi-media installations.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean you, Luke. I just really didn't like that piece."

"Nah, s'alright. I completely agree with you. Why do you think I got out of sound art in the first place?" Luke chuckled as Jack shook with mirth at my obvious distress.

"Right, we're here." Jack unfolded himself from the taxi, leaving me to pay the driver, and gazed up at the warehouse, wondering if he'd got the right building, as it seemed awfully quiet for a party. "You reckon we should pick up some booze before we go in?"

"Nah, don't bother. You're the guest of honour, it's their job to ply you with booze, not the other way around," Luke shrugged, the eternal sponge.

We climbed the stairs and knocked on the door, which slowly swung back to reveal the dreadful sound artist who had just signed to Fat Cat. I cringed as Jack pulled back his lips in a cruel smile, praying that he would be quiet. "Hello, Jane," he chirped, kissing her warmly and embracing her. "Meet my wife, Lucy. She's a musician, too. Though she hates Sound Art, reckons it's complete toss, right, Luce?"

I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to open and just swallow me whole, but fortunately, Jane seemed to already be quite drunk, and she just laughed dismissively, and threaded her arm through Jack's as she guided us towards the kitchen to find booze. I stayed for exactly one drink - a lukewarm glass of white wine - then made my excuses and left, waiting at least until I was safely on the night bus before bursting into tears of impotent rage.

I got home relatively quickly, my head spinning from the alcohol and my cheeks still flushed from embarrassment. On a busy Friday night, it took me a while to get an internet connection, but it was clear by the time I got onto the Loophole that it had all been over for some time. The frame Allen had set up for the video was gone. I glanced at the thread where the chat had taken place - 300 new answers? Christ. 

I clicked on the thread, and stared at the name on the second post.

 

> **Jonny** : Dear Allen, Hello World!
> 
> **thom** : are we live yet? hello? can anyone read me?

 

A shiver went down my spine. It was just a word, a single name, four letters on a white computer screen, and yet... His words. His actually thoughts, unmediated, direct from his fingers to my computer screen, no journalists, no reporters or cameras, no layers of reverb and production, no glossy printed lyric booklets, no waves of hundreds of people standing between me and the stage. Thom, the actual, real, living, breathing Thom Yorke had typed that, on a forum that I'd programmed.

Oh, stop it, I told myself. Get a grip on yourself, girl. He's just a man. They're just words on a computer screen. Stop being so starstruck about some celebrity and read what music tips he has to offer. After all, maybe you can take his advice and get signed to some avant-classical label and go spend a summer writing sound art operas in Denmark. No, don't think about that. Read the thread. The confusing, bubbling, tangled thread of dozens of people all trying to post at once.

But as I paged back through the replies, my heart leapt every time I saw a post from Thom. Allen had fiddled with the settings so that Thom's, Jonny's and Nigel's posts were all in blue, making them easy to spot as I scrolled down the page, but it seemed to add to the sense of unreality. I clicked on one of Thom's posts, then clicked on Admin Tools, and then Show All Details, and the IP address popped up on the screen. It looked like a new one to me, unique, not a number I'd seen before. Christ, I really had Thom's actual IP address now. If this was all perfectly above board, why did I feel like such a stalker? I copied and pasted it into WHOIS and stared at the results on the screen. Registered to: Radiohead, the name of their managers, and an address in Oxford. Yes, it really was him. Thom fucking Yorke, on my website.

Clearly, Allen had seen me online, as my IM pinged.

 

> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : sorry, eyesore, you missed a brilliant party. how was the art show?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : the talk was alright, but the party afterwards was absolutely maudlin. How did it go? Did the webcam work?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : oh yeah. i recorded the whole thing, i'm thinking of putting the good bits up on the site when i get more space.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Were the questions good, then?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : they were HILARIOUS
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Did anyone at all remember to ask my questions?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : hang on, I'm putting the relevant bit up on FTP right now, should be done uploading in a few minutes. make sure you're sitting down when you watch it, coz you are going to *love* this

 

It took nearly 20 minutes to download the bit of video that Allen had sent me, so I poured myself a glass of wine and tried to wash away the evening, trying to forget about Jack's boorish behaviour, and think about how amazing the webchat was going to be. A couple of times I had managed to catch their webcasts live, back in the Kid A years, and I had always been surprised by how funny they were, the comic interplay between Thom and Jonny, their sly humour, with Thom as surreal joker and Jonny as giggling straight man. I hoped it would be like that, as I finally opened the movie and watched the oddly familiar setting of Radiohead's studio through the jerky black and white of the webcam.

Thom was sitting at his old, beaten-up laptop, directly in front of the webcam, with Jonny to his left, a powerbook perched on table in front of him. Christ, was that the Mac he posted to the Loophole with? I felt oddly honoured. Nigel was in the background clearing up some cables and plugging things in, as Thom mugged for the camera, moving his good eye right up to the webcam so that it filled the whole screen, then backing away slowly to reveal a mischievous smile. He was dressed sharply, a Fred Perry shirt with a light sleeveless jumper over the top, yet his spiky hedgehog hair gave a casual elegance to the rather Mod look. There was a burst of static, then in the background, I could hear Nigel on what sounded like an intercom.

"Is this thing on? Check one, check two! Can you hear us, Allen?"

A disembodied voice echoed through the camera, a soft male voice that I realised was actually Allen, though I'd never heard his speaking voice before. "Yeah, we're live. We've got visual, and we're getting... yes, we've got sound now. Jonny, can you type something for me?"

Jonny leaned over and pecked at the keyboard in front of him. "Dear Allen: hello world!" he read aloud as he typed.

"Are we live?" Thom was still making faces in the webcam, so that the world seemed to diminish to the size of his pupil, then expand again to take in Jonny and Nigel. "Shit, we're online. I better stop." Sitting back down, he pounded on the computer keyboard, then grinned up at the camera impishly. "Hello, and welcome to the Loophole."

"Ooh!" Jonny chirped, still gazing into his laptop. "Speaking of the Loophole, look at our email, we have entries already! Oh, goodness. Ooh, I know which one I'm going to listen to first."

"No cheating, and no nepotism. You know the rules, Jon-Jon."

"What, no nepotism? You mean, I can't pick 'Amazing Fantastic All-Bass Anthem' by zoC dooWneerG as the winner? Oh, drat."

"Right. Hello, The Loophole! So I'm Thom, this is Jonny, and that's Nige, over there. And we're here to answer questions about the production of our last album, Hail To The Thief." He obediently held up a copy of the CD as if under strict instruction from their record company, then almost immediately discarded it again, only for Jonny to pick it up and start playing with it. "In all good record shops now. Anyway, shall we begin? I'll go on the forum and start taking questions, shall I?" His smile was killing me, the way his whole face seemed to light up with irrepressible joy, like he was glowing with mirth and mischief, even through the grainy texture of the webcam.

"Wait, wait, no! We've got some questions already, to answer first," Jonny reminded him, shifting slightly and pulling a computer print-out from his jacket pocket. "SleepFuriously gave them to us, remember?"

Thom's eyes got all misty and faraway for a second, as he intoned "Colourless green ideas sleep furiously" as if he were quoting poetry.

"What?" Jonny looked up, perplexed.

"It's Chomsky. A grammatically correct but semantically meaningless statement," Thom informed him with a self-satisfied nod. "Clever lot, those forum kids."

Jonny cast him a long-suffering glance, then rolled his eyes. "Very clever. Anyway, this question is from LonelyIsAnEyesore."

Thom's eyes lit up. I swear, they almost twinkled, as he moved towards the webcam, fixed it with a gaze that seemed to bore almost straight into my eyes, then started to sing. "Don’t worry. Dance in the road. The house is reeling, I’m kneeling by the tub. Lonely is as lonely does, Lonely is an eyesore..." And then he leaned back in his chair, and I swear, his good eye winked as he nodded slowly and bit his lip. "Throwing Muses. Top choon, mate. Top choon."

I had to pause the video and let out a little shriek. Then I rewound it, and watched it over again, the sparkle in Thom's eye as he sung the line of my screen name, watching his face, as if he were singing specifically to me.

"Right, first question," announced Jonny. "Ooh, this is a good one. Thom, when you first write a song, do you hear the whole thing, arrangement and all - or do you just get a germ of an idea and have to flesh it out within the group? Does your band ever surprise you with the things they do to your songs?" Jonny snickered as he looked up towards the webcam from under his hair, his soft eyes filled with mischief. "All the time. He thinks we're forever ruining his songs."

"Well, it depends," Thom ruminated, chewing on his lip as he crossed his legs, pulling one leg up into his lap, vibrating and jiggling his foot as he seemed to think over the question. Jonny hunched forward and started to type on his laptop. So this was why most of the first page was all Jonny. But Thom seemed distracted by the clatter of the keys, prodding Jonny curiously. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Typing. That's generally how web chats work."

"But I'm not done answering."

"No, but Worrywort has asked me an interesting question about home-made noise generators on the forum."

"But I want to go on the forum," Thom wheedled like a little boy.

"You answer on camera, while I answer on the forum, and then we'll switch. Alright?"

"Alright. Anyway, yeah. Eyesore." He looked back towards the webcam and smiled, sending a shiver down my spine as I couldn't shake the feeling that he could see me, just as I was watching him, even from a distance of 50 miles and several hours. "Kind of both, to be honest. I get songs in weird bursts, in sudden flashes, and I feel like when I'm writing them, I can hear the whole thing, the guitars, the drums, buh-dup-bah, buh-dup-bam-TISH." He air-drummed lightly as he spoke, hitting an imaginary cymbal for emphasis. "But when I bring it in to the band, they often completely amaze me, the things they do with them. Sometimes it's like I bring in a block of marble, in to the studio, and I'm like 'there's a song in there, lads' and then they go chipping away at it until they reveal the song that was there, in the rough. And sometimes it's exactly like what I saw, lurking in the rock - ha ha, in the rock, do you like that?" He slapped his knee at his own pun and Jonny groaned. "And sometimes it's something beyond my wildest dreams. Does that make any sense?"

Jonny looked up from his keyboard, his face so close to it he was almost resting his nose on the monitor, and nodded. "Eyesore's partner is an artist, he'll understand."

Allen's recording abruptly ended, and I was left with the last frame of Jonny and Thom smirking at one another, and the distinctly weird feeling of just how odd it was that Jonny seemed to know so much about my life. Still, it was SleepFuriously I had to thank in the first place. I opened up the private conversation and left another note for him, not expecting him to be online at that time of night, but he responded before I had even finished reading the thread.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't know how you did that, but thank you! x
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : that was a good question. i'm glad it got asked/answered
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh and btw, i wanted to send you this. please do NOT share it w the rest of the forum, it's not ready, but i thought you'd appreciate it - or if you have any comments? _www.yousendit.com/sleepfuriouslyroughmix.mp3_

 

I downloaded the track not really knowing what to expect. Of course, I was honoured that he'd trusted me enough to send me an unfinished track. But with the experience of the awful Sound Art still ringing in my ears, I was nervous as much as excited. What if I hated it? I really liked SleepFuriously, as a poster - and even more now that he'd helped me with the chat questions. I always tried to be as charitable and encouraging as possible with people, especially when they were starting out. I could usually find something to respond to, and like, when listening to an unfinished track. Why would it be any different with SleepFuriously?

When the track finished downloading, I imported it into iTunes and hit play. The sound hit my ears in a glorious rush, a tangle of textures that slithered and flickered and finally resolved into beats. A snippet of guitar, playing a repeated riff, caught up and carried by a heavily processed, but still very Yorke-ish sounding vocal - had he got that off Digital Landfill? And then it swooped off into a slightly melancholy but incredibly beautiful melody, fluttering through several permutations as processed cymbals thrummed in the background, the chaos rising with the insistent dance beat, building to an almost orgasmic climax before resolving to a chatter of drum machine and churning synth.

As the music faded out, I stared at the screen in surprise. Why on earth would Furious not want to share that with the rest of the forum? Well, I supposed he was nervous, the way the other posters often treated him. It wasn't his fault he seemed ignorant - but with the dumb newbie questions he asked about Cubase, the way he seemed almost completely unfamiliar with the terminology of electronic music (he was forever mixing up Attack, Decay, Sustain and Release) I had taken him for a complete beginner, yet this track, this glorious rush of fuzzy emotion, it was clearly the work of some naive genius. This was a man who should be writing sound art operas in Denmark, the way his ears seemed to weave and intertwine beautiful textures and rhythms into something that seemed almost magical.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Furious, mate, you should submit this. In fact, you should submit this not just to the competition, but probably to Warp Records or Kompakt as well because this is just... This is just incredible. Honestly, Furious, I was thinking I was going to have to sugar-coat my reactions, but this is honestly absolutely stark raving gorgeous. You should be signed. That is, if you want to be. But seriously, you have the talent.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : u really liked it? your not just being charitable cuz i loved yr track so much?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Do you really think I would do that? Furious, you need to have more confidence in yourself because this is actually magic. I want to fall asleep listening to this, wrap it round my head like a blanket of lovely.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : u don't think it sounds too fuzzy and indistinct?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, I love the fuzziness and the warmth. It reminds me of Boards of Canada, that kind of hazy analogue nostalgia mixed with futuristic technology
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh wow that's such a huge compliment, i love boards of canada. they just remind me of childhood, endless hazy summers on the beach
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : yes, but sort of tatty British seaside, I don't get sunkissed golden California sand off BoC - or your track - it's much more sun-faded deck chairs and decaying Victorian piers. And it's funny, despite the analogue warmth of your track, I do get this impression of winter, of the sun, low on a winter horizon, glinting off the sea. Is that what you meant?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah that's exactly what i meant. i guess that sense of place shows through coz i was thinking about this beach in scotland where we used to go on holiday when i was a kid. boards of canada are from scotland aren't they? it shows. it was quiet barren and windswept, miles of shingle and this cold sun that never quite warmed the water enough to swim. it's one of my earliest memories, sorting through pebbles trying to find ones with holes through them coz my mum said they were lucky
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh but they are lucky! I remember being told that as a child, too. I used to hunt for them like I hunted for four leaf clovers - but I had more luck with finding beach pebbles with holes in them. Sometimes if I looked really carefully, I'd find one where a little tiny pebble had lodged in the hole and if you shook it, you'd get this faint rattle like the swishing hiss of a wave pulling back from a shingle beach. I think that's my favourite sound in the world. Are you Scottish, then? My Dad's Scottish, but I've never been up there.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : nah i'm just a sassenach, according to the scots. english, whatever that means. 'a mongrel half-bred race there came, betwixt a saxon and a dane.' scotland's fucking beautiful, tho. thats the one thing i miss about where i live, it's miles from the sea. i mean there's the thames but it's not exactly the same, is it? the slow steady lap of a river compared with the endless possibility and endlessly changing possibility of the sea. i lived by the sea when i was a small boy. it's funny, i don't remember much about our house or the neighbourhood, but i do remember the sea. some day i'll live by the sea again. california or cornwall, i dunno. i crave it sometimes
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Yeah, I know what you mean. There's something so calming about the sea.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : the relentless repetition of it. it's kinda like techno i guess
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But also the casual violence of nature. I don't know about you,but the pounding of the ocean, it makes me feel a lot better about my own internal restlessness
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but i find watching the river calming for the opposite reason. watching the slow movement of the thames makes me feel like there has always been a thames, there will always be a thames no matter what we do to fuck up the planet. it's soothing.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Where do you live? If you live near the Thames, do you live in London? We should meet up some time, go to the pub or something. Or the ICA bar, if your girlfriend likes it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i gotta go. i'm really glad u liked my track. ur really kind. thanks i appreciate it x

 

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. I shouldn't have pressed it, I shouldn't have suggested real life impinge on internet friendships. Or perhaps my curious questions about where he was from were too invasive, the kind of things I hated when people asked about me. Either way, Furious disappeared for a couple of weeks after his name winked offline that night, to the point where I wondered if I'd offended him somehow, said something wrong. Or maybe the forum kids had finally got to him, with their teasing. They wouldn't give him such a hard time if they had heard his music - but I kept my promise and stayed quiet.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The results of the remix competition are announced; have any of the production forum regulars been selected?
> 
> But when all of the forum kids sign up for the hot new Social Media site, MySpace, Lucy encounters the dark side of the internet, as she finds herself doxxed.

The forum was fairly subdued over the next week. Even TalkShowHost's ROLLING UK POLITICS THREAD, usually a hotbed of arguments and name-calling was sluggish and subdued, with hardly a complaint about Tony B.Liar or the war in Iraq when Furious wasn't there to start ranting about them.  Perhaps the heat was getting to everyone, as Britain sweltered in tropical weather. Perhaps it was the sense of slightly deflated let-down, now that most of us had finished our tracks and submitted them, and there was nothing to do but squabble with one another until the winners were announced. Perhaps it was the odd silence from Jonny - though not so odd when I remembered he was on tour in Japan. 

But it was PrincessTelex who got things going again with her incessant chatter. Sometimes, to be honest, she wound me up a bit, the way she could never leave a thread uncommented on, even if she didn't have the faintest clue what it was about, but her dogged determination to get conversations going moved from small talk to chatter to actually interesting discussions. She started a "What's the best track you've heard all day?" thread. And next she started a "What are you watching on television?" thread. So then TalkShowHost, annoyed by the lowbrow mainstream media under discussion, started a "What books are you reading?" thread. And in response, Worrywort started a "What comic books are you reading?" thread, which actually got Jonny to break his radio silence, posting a rather mispelled (cursing the Japanese keyboard) but very excited message from a web cafe in Tokyo about the exciting new Manga he'd picked up while on tour. And the forum seemed to sputter back into life again.

When the first set of winners were announced, I hated to admit it, but I was completely struck with nerves. I had never thought I had a competitive bone in my body, but I was actually on tenterhooks to find out which of us would make the cut or not. I tried to be charitable, and insisted publicly, that so long as at least someone from the Loophole forum made it to the list, I'd be happy and proud, but I couldn't help it. I checked back compulsively, swinging between happy elation, convinced that my track would be chosen, and utter despair and self-doubt.

What did it matter anyway? The contest would be running for months, apparently. If I didn't win in the first round, I could always try again and submit another track. And yet, I was sneakingly proud of the one I'd submitted.

As usual, PrincessTelex was first on the case, squealing with joy on the thread that she'd started, claiming she wasn't going to spoil the surprise, but everyone had to go to the official site RIGHT. NOW. I clicked the bookmark, scrunched up my eyes in nervous excitement, then waited for the page to load. My eye went straight to the second name on the list, and my heart leapt into my throat. I had to read it three times to really process the news, but yes, there it was, my track. Dragging my eyes away, I forced myself to read the other names, scanning for any other forum regulars. Yes! There was Worrywort's track. And there was Adie's, but I didn't recognise any of the other names, unless someone had submitted their work under a name they hadn't told us on the forum. I went back to the forum, did a little squeal of joy, congratulated Worrywort and Adie, and tried to gracefully accept the congratulations of others. Then I went back to Digital Landfill and slowly started to download the other tracks as quickly as my connection would allow, the server clearly groaning under the weight of so many people trying to grab them all at once.

I tried to ride the high for days, smiling to myself in the office, and thinking how odd it was to be sitting in Canary Wharf, crunching number for bankers, when none of them knew of my other life. But who on earth would I even tell, at the office? They wouldn't even understand what I was on about. My boss had tried to talk to me about music exactly once, upon hearing I was a former musician, when I'd first joined his staff. I'd learned fairly quickly not to bring it up again.

"So what kind of music you into, then?" he'd demanded, having failed at extracting a football team preference from me.

"Oh, I don't know that you'd know it."

"Oh go on, I like all kinds of music. Try me."

"Um..." I looked through the CDs in my bag. "Manitoba? Medicine? Four Tet?" Completely blank face. "Radiohead?"

A nod of recognition and a slightly suspicious look. "Radiohead? You really like them? You know, I bought that Computer record when it won all the awards."

"Oh yeah? Did you like it?" For a brief second, I thought we might actually find common ground, though I'd learned to be suspicious of people whose favourite Radiohead album was OK Computer.

"Utter unlistenable shit, I thought. Completely impenetrable. Load of old noise. I thought it was going to be like Pink Floyd, but it was just chattering electronics and wibbling whale noises. Sold it on before I'd even finished listening to it."

Gritting my teeth, I curled my toes inside my good office shoes and decided not to inform my poor boss that he'd probably bought Kid A, and not OK Computer after all, making a mental note never to talk about music in the office again. So no, I would not be telling anyone at work that I'd won Radiohead's remix competition.

At home, it wasn't much easier. Jack was initially supportive, or at least he tried to be. He bought me dinner and a celebratory bottle of wine, but before we'd even finished the first glass, he started in on how I should trade on my reputation to become a professional remixer (what reputation?) and then started carping that the band hadn't even paid me for my trouble. Paid? The thrill of winning, the exposure, the hundreds - maybe even thousands - of people who were downloading my track, wasn't that enough? Well, apparently not for Jack. He reckoned I should be out there pushing myself and canvassing labels and blowing my own trumpet. Clearly, it had worked for him. I ended the evening drunk, slightly maudlin and even a tiny bit ashamed of myself for not having done more with my apparently amazing tracks and pitiful life.

By the next day, Jack was acting like I was a complete failure as a human being because I hadn't woken up to a hundred record companies knocking down my door. I had never thought that anything much would come either way, win or lose, but the only effect it had on my life at all was getting slightly more teasing on the forum, from people who thought that any short-temperedness might be down to getting airs above my station, rather than my usual crankiness. Allen's work was being more and more demanding - he'd managed to manoeuvre his way into a new job on the basis of his expanded web programming experience - but it meant that I was more on my own when it came to moderating the forum, as he tended to stick his head in only late at night, by which point I had already smoothed any ruffled feathers and poured oil upon troubled waters. But I found myself more relieved than I had ever expected, when SleepFuriously abruptly resurfaced.

 

> **WHAT'S YOUR MYSPACE? SEND ME A FRIEND REQUEST!**
> 
>  
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : it's the new thing! all the cool kids have one. i'm princesstelexie on there. send me a friend request and i'll add you! x
> 
> **Windowlicker** : done. i'm windowlicker1986 can i be in your top 8?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : only if you ask nicely
> 
> **Windowlicker** : i asked nicely. i didn't even insult u, u wav. btw u look v v pretty in yr profile pic
> 
> **BearHunt** : Why on earth should I get one of these? It's just like Friendster all over again, like LiveJournal all over again. I don't think I can be bothered.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** :  Yeah but the difference is, if you sign up as a musician, you can put music on your page! I put a couple of my tracks up last week and got offered a gig in Dundee off the back of it! Well worth if you're a musician.
> 
> **KidAdie** : really? i'm totes gonna get one in that case.
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : Don't do it, it's a total scam. Why would they give us all this cool stuff for free? It's just so the government can keep tabs on our movements. Resist it.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I checked it out and it looks legit. Anyway, I'm Axiomatics on there. Lexie, David and Joe, check your friend requests. Anyone else?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Oh yes! TheFabulousMizzTingBerlin baby! Hit me up.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : OMG, MizzTing, your profile is ~gorgeous~! I love the silver trousers in your profile photo.
> 
> **MizzTing** : thanks, hon. Though you appear to be... an oscilloscope?
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : I can't believe you guys are being suckered into this, this is such a bad idea. In the future, the government won't even need Big Brother, you guys will all just offer up all your data for free.
> 
> **KidAdie** : stop being so paranoid, TSH. I've sent everyone requests. I wanna be in the Axiomatic Oscilloscope's Top 8! Please, Eyesore?
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : I may be paranoid, but...
> 
> **BearHunt** : SHUT UP
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : SHUT UP!!!
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : ha ha snap
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : yeah, alright. So far I've got Lexie, MizzTing and Adie? Oh, I've got to save my number one spot for my other half or he'll go spare, but I can fit four more of you in.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : talkshowhost is right to be suspicious. i'm always wary of 'free' on the internet. if you're not paying for the service, you probably are the product being sold
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Furious! You're back! We missed you.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : oh fucking great. fucken nutjob has returned to earth. wee-oooh wee-oooh earth to sleepfuriously, put your tin helmet on, the government are coming for you, you batshit crazy badman
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : he's absolutely right. What are they doing with all this data they're collecting?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : ew, who left that gross message on my page? you're unfriended and i'm setting my profile to private! i'm sick of this pablo shit!
> 
> **Windowlicker** : it wasn't me!
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : who's this Tom dude we all seem to be friends with?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I like to imagine that's Thom, as he's brought us all together.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : hahahaha
> 
> **Jonny** : I'm on there, I'm MrMarmite
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh god don't tell me you've given in too jonny
> 
> **Windowlicker** : omg jonny, how do you have 8000 friends already?
> 
> **Jonny** : I don't know, I've given track of everyone who keeps trying to add me, so I just started approving everyone. They've all been terribly nice so far. It's quite lovely, really.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : whatever you do, don't friend someone calling themselves TelexSuxxC*** - it's bloody Pablo again. Why doesn't he just fuck off?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you all need to just turn your computers off and go for a walk. in the woods. or by the seaside. just anywhere out in the fresh air, with real people.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : and u need to stop being such a complete freak, furious.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : leave it out, Windowlicker. To each their own.
> 
> **MizzTing** : who's Jack? In your top 8, Eyesore? He's really good looking. Do you think he'll friend me?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Ha ha, thanks, that's my husband. And yeah, I'm sure he will friend you, especially as you're an artist.

 

I didn't think anything of it. It was such a casual comment, made in passing to a friend, but that was before I realised the way that things could ricochet around the web. I closed the window, went into a meeting with my boss, went into the server room for a couple of hours to fix something, and came back to find the invasive downside of social media web 2.0. Someone had bumped the "WOMEN IN ELECTRONIC MUSIC" thread and there were dozens of new answers. That thread always gave me the creeps, and I tried to avoid it, but there was a Private Message from PrincessTelex.

 

> **PrincessTelex** : lucy, you might wanna set your myspace profile to private
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What? And how do you know my name?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : whatever you do, don't go on the women in electronic music thread

 

I stared at the screen for a moment, trying to work out what was going on. I had purposely not put my real name on the forum, anywhere. Even on MySpace, I had deliberately chosen a picture of my equipment instead of my face. It wasn't that I was trying to hide anything it was just... well, life experience had made me wary of revealing too much on the internet. I took a deep breath and clicked the troublesome thread.

Oh god.

There, towards the bottom, under dozens of photos of Kate Bush's nipples and Beyonce's arse and titty shots of obscure Brazilian house DJs, was a huge photo of me, wearing the Grecian draped dress that always showed off entirely too much of my breasts if I didn't stand up perfectly straight. I didn't remember it being taken, but it had clearly been shot at Jack's talk, looking slightly sodden with wine as I clung precariously to his arm, though he had been carefully cropped out of the photo and the picture blown up to focus on my chest.

 

> **DeusExMachina** : EYESORE? I DON'T THINK SHE'LL BE LONELY LONG WITH A BODY LIKE THAT!!! WOULD SMASH INTO ATOMS
> 
> **Windowlicker** : what are you talking about? that old bag? she's old, man. that hag must be at least 30
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : Oh my god, Eyesore is a CHICK?
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : A TOTALLY HOTTTTTT CHICK! WOULD C ON T's ALL NIGHT LONG
> 
> **Windowlicker** : wait, that's eyesore? omg i totally didnt realise. shit.
> 
> **KidAdie** : Eyesore is a girl? And a cute girl, too? Oh phew, what a relief, I suddenly feel a lot less gay for crushing on her
> 
> **MizzTing** : I suddenly feel a whole lot MORE gay! Girlfrien! I mean GIRLfren!
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : she's been hiding a body like that on us all along? I'd finger her mod-wheel and twiddle her knobs and lick out her envelope filter all night
> 
> **Worrywort** : uh, DeusExMachina, that's a bit out of line?
> 
> **Windowlicker** : i was totally playing with u, eyesore. i'd so hit it.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : Are you sure that's Eyesore? Are you sure that's not some random porn star that DeusExMachina's dug up and photoshopped her face on?
> 
> **BearHunt** : How can Eyesore be a chick? Eyesore has a dayjob as a computer programmer. Eyesore solders old analogue synths for a hobby. I'm sorry but that cute girl does can't possibly be the Eyesore I know.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : It's totally her. I found it on the website of that dude she said was her husband. Anyway, WHO GIVES A SHIT, WHEN SHE'S A TOTAL MILF?!?!? AMIRITE, LADS? i AM TOTALLY EYE-FUCKING HER RIGHT NOW. EYE-FUCKING HER IN THE SKULL CAVITY
> 
> **KidAdie** : a girl who knows how to program a drum machine and still rocks stilettos like Destiny's missing Child? Be still my beating heart!
> 
> **Worrywort** : I don't know where Eyesore is, but i'm starting to feel really creeped out by this thread.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : y u being all captain save-a-ho?
> 
> **Worrywort** : I'M NOT BEING CAPTAIN SAVE-A-HO, I'M A GIRL, TOO AND THIS SHIT IS CREEPING ME OUT
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : WTF? Worrywort is a girl, too? Is everybody on this forum a girl but me?
> 
> **BearHunt** : I don't believe Worrywort is a girl either. You've been on the main forum for years and never said.
> 
> **Worrywort** : I'm a girl, and this kind of fucking shit is the reason I never tell anyone.
> 
> **CokeBaby** : I'm a girl, too! hahahaha, no, just kidding, suck my dick
> 
> **MizzTing** : I AM SPARTACUS
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : SHOW US YR TITS WORRYWORT
> 
> **Worrywort** : fuck off.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : ur just jealous coz you don't got tits like that.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : how do you think eyesore is gonna feel when she gets online and reads this? you guys are gonna be in a lot of trouble
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : shut up, go make me a sandwich, bitch
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : lads, this is completely out of order. show some respect.
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : what are you captain save-a-ho now, furious? fuck off you feminazi freak can't you take a fucken joke?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : its hardly 'nazi' to think that women are our equals and should be treated with respect and common decency. eyesore is my friend. your out of line to treat her like this
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : i don't know why ur being all high and mighty. how is it any different from what she and princesstelex always go on about thom yorke? well at least that's a big relief, we know she's not a poof
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : for a start, even if she was a gay man, what difference does that make? i have gay friends, i have bisexual and queer friends. they deserve to be treated with the same respect as anyone else. and what's more, even when princess telex or jenny go on about radiohead. i dunno. they talk about how attractive they think the band members are, they say nice, complimentary things about them. they don't type out rape fantasies about people's skulls
> 
> **MizzTing** : I don't know about you, but I'm eye-fucking Ed O'Brien right now. You're being just as sexist as DeusExMachina is, but in a different way, Furious. Women have just as sexual and as nasty and dirty thoughts and impulses as men do. We just know if we type them in public we'll get completely fucking shat on for it. While it's considered completely normative for DeusExMachina to behave like this. But if we talk about wanting to lick vegan cheesecake off Thom Yorke's stomach, we'll get shouted off the forum and called fangirls and groupies and lots worse. Total double standard.
> 
> **Worrywort** : vegan cheesecake? OMG I just died.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : omg it's on the main forum now. pablo has photoshopped it, holy fucken shit eyesore as a hooker, that's hilarious!
> 
> **DeusExMachina** : look at the ass on that nappy-headed ho! want that bitch on my dick like white on rice!
> 
> **Jonny** : Stop it. Now. This has gone far enough. That's completely racist and not funny.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : This thread is locked. DeusExMachina, you're banned. I'm speaking to Allen and going to close down the forum.

 

As soon as I'd locked the thread, I went into the website's database, opened up the messages table and ripped the offending post straight out of the back end. The thread would probably be ruined, the index destroyed, but I didn't care. I felt so violated and humiliated I just wanted the whole thing gone. If Allen hadn't popped up in IM in the corner of my screen, I might have taken down the entire server.

 

> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : WHOA, WHOA, EYESORE, PLEASE! CHILL!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can't, I'm too angry.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : look, i know you're upset but don't take out the website.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Upset? Upset doesn't even begin to cover it. I feel violated, humiliated, stalked - to have to read that little creep's rape fantasies about me all over the forum. I will never feel safe there again.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ok, ok, deusexmachina is a loathesome toad and he'll never set foot on my website again, but think about everyone else
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : They were all doing it, Allen. All of them. Fuck, god knows what Pablo will have done to my picture by now...
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : fuck pablo. who gives a shit what he does, everyone hates him. and not everyone was doing it. worrywort and sleepfuriously - and jonny! jonny greenwood was sticking up for you!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't care if Thom Yorke himself was sticking up for me personally. That was just so... fuck. Just... fuck!
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : I'm sorry.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : Eyesore - or can I call you Lucy? You there?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Alright, you can call me Lucy. But I don't want anyone else calling me that.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : OMG, I'm just... surprised. I had no idea you were a woman.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What, even with the way that I go on about Thom? Fuck, I even told you I was married!
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : I JUST THOUGHT YOU WERE GAY.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : HAHAHAHAHAHHA omg, really? Is that why you suddenly started standing up for gay rights and telling people off for homophobia?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : no, i did that because i don't think that shit's right at all. i'll call out anyone who tries posting offensive racist shit, as well, and i'm white. but... oh ok, yeah, i guess i just wanted to let you know it was ok with me. it never even dawned on me you might be a girl.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What, girls can't be programmers, or be into electronic music production? You'll call out homophobia or racism, but pull that kinda bullshit sexism on me?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : no, I didn't mean it like that. you just don't... fuck, i can't say anything that's not going to make this worse, can i? you know half the forum's in love with you now, don't you?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's the kind of love I can really do without, to be honest.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : aawww, windowlicker has made a thread saying sorry and posting pictures of obscure synths to try and make you happy. he's not a bad kid, you know, he's just young and easily influenced and gets carried away
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I just can't seem to explain to you, how awful it is, when guys you know, and trust, and hang out with every day, suddenly turn around and go all rapey like that. It's just so... like I don't even know who to trust any more. One minute, you're just hanging around, one of the guys, and the next you suddenly feel under attack from people you thought were your friends. It's so fucking awful.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : I can't even imagine.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Hang on, I've got a Private Message in another window. If it's one of those lads, I just can't even deal right now. Oh, it's SleepFuriously. TTYL

 

> **SleepFuriously** : eyesore, are you alright? i'm really sorry about what happened
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm really angry and hurt, but I'll live.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Thanks for sticking up for me, though.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : well i couldn't just stand back and not say something. not that you need to be defended or anything, but i can't stand it, watching men behave like that, like that gives arsehole men the impression that all men are like them, and that makes it ok. i just rlly hate bullies.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Thanks, I do appreciate that. Though that's kind of an interesting, almost - gasp - feminist way of looking at it?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : my girlfriend is a massive feminist, i guess it kind of rubbed off on me a bit.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Wow, I wish my feminism would rub off on Jack. He's thinks it's a load of cobblers. I dunno, he makes a lot of left-wing noises when it suits him, but he still buys the old "biology is destiny" routine.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : well i'm not the most masculine man in the world so i can hardly comment. i dunno, the way my girlfriend explained it, it just seemed like common sense. but she's a marxist feminist so when she framed it in those political terms i found i could understand and really relate to it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Not just a Feminist man, but a Marxist Feminist Man? Be still my beating heart! I call unicorns!
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : har dee ha ha
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Just kidding. I'm impressed.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : just another reason they'd probably call me 'batshit' on the forum
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Fuck the forum. I'm just feeling really down on the whole internet right now. Like, me and Allen, we started the Loophole to get away from that horrible, deeply conservative, conformist, sexist, racist, homophobic trolling shit on the official forum, but it's just followed us here. God, I suppose I'll never be able to go on the official forum again, now Pablo has plastered my face all over it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : look, i, um... well, i... kinda know the guys who run the official radiohead forum. i can't get them to ban pablonerudarocks because it was set up to be really really anti-censorship but if you want i could ask them to take down the photoshops
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Photoshops? On the main forum? Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, I don't even want to know, do I?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i can ask if they'll take them down. if it would make a difference to you
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Wait so you know the guys who run the official website? 
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : um yeah. please don't make a big deal of it. i don't want any hassle on your forum
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Is that how you got my questions to Thom and Jonny for the web chat?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah something like that
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it doesn't matter. I won't out you. (ha ha outing, everyone apparently thinks I'm a gay man, it's weird to be outed as a straight woman.) But I just wanted you to thank them for me, then. I really appreciated that. And if you could get them to take any photoshops down, that would actually be really great. I would be eternally grateful.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i'll ask. i'm sure it won't be a problem. and eyesore?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : you can call me Lucy if you like
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i just wanted to say that you're a really lovely person, lucy. if beauty comes from the you-ness of you, then you're beautiful because you're kind, you're patient, and you're incredibly talented. jack is a lucky bloke. x

 

I felt kinda funny reading that. Everyone on the forum made out like Furious was some kind of lunatic, but it just seemed that over this whole nonsense, he had been the most sensible person on the messageboard. And it was charming. Charming and oddly sweet. I felt my face flush slightly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As her real-life relationships grows more difficult, Lucy starts a flirtation with some of the regulars.
> 
> But when the fans discuss ways of meeting Radiohead, Lucy reveals that she may have a bit of a secret history with the band.

The forum slowly calmed down back to normal, helped mostly by an influx of new posters as Radiohead started a two-month tour of America. I was worried about the sudden growth, as we were such a small, closely knit group, but Allen, MizzTing and I sat down one evening on AIM chat and decided to hash out a bunch of guidelines. I thought it was mostly common sense stuff - no racist, sexist or homophobic language, no personal attacks, no posting IRL information about other posters without their express permission - but it caused squawks of protest from TalkShowHost, to whom any sort of regulations or even guidelines violated his strict anarchist beliefs. But, for the most part it seemed to work. There was still a bit of residual ill-will about DeusExMachina's banning but it seldom bubbled over into outright hostility. People just had too much to talk about. Mostly gossiping about Radiohead, to be honest. Oh yeah, and occasionally music. 

I tried to keep from posting too much, from getting caught up in it again, because I didn't want to give away so much of myself, I didn't want to run the risk of getting hurt like that again. But in the end, it was SleepFuriously who tempted me back into revealing my most personal thoughts again. He wooed me with music. He sent me another track, just as beautiful as the first, and then a third, so gorgeous it took my breath away, the tiny snippet of an acoustic guitar slowly strumming and throbbing into a cocoon of spinning electronic sounds, as gentle as a cradle to lay my head. And then he seduced me back into posting to the forum again with a topic I found absolutely irresistible.

 

> **WHY DO YOU MAKE MUSIC?**
> 
>  
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i just thought it's kinda weird. we spend a lot of time talking about how we make music, technique & technology and everything in between. but we never talk about why we do it. what our motivations and expectations are.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : what a stupid question. we just do. boredom, i think
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : it's not a stupid question, but it's one with an absolutely obvious answer. I started making music to meet girls. Nothing like a guitar to make girls interested in you
> 
> **Windowlicker** : or dj-ing. girls love djs
> 
> **MizzTing** : If that's the case, why do you lot never actually go out and meet any girls, and spend all your time on the internet wanking over new releases of Ableton?
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : Oh, fuck off, MizzTing. Why do you make music if it's not to meet girls? I never understood why girls made music. It's such a sexual display kind of thing, going onstage and playing guitar. What do girls even get out of it?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Don't be so boringly heteronormative, Minotaur. I started doing it to get laid, same as everyone else.
> 
> **Worrywort** : and don't project your obsessions onto everyone else, MizzTing! I *don't* do it to get laid. I do it because I love music so much I wanted to make it myself. I'm just so obsessed with music, and I always have been. I love the way it sounds, the way it makes me feel. I guess I wanted to learn the magic trick. If I could write a piece of music that made someone else feel the way that Energy Flash, or Lost in the Silver Box or Dubnobasswithmyheadman made *me* feel, that would just be the greatest high in the world. And it is. Making music is my high, my drugs, listening back to a track and thinking "that didn't even exist until I hit record" that is the best feeling in the world.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : this is a great question, actually, sleepfuriously. and i don't even know the answer to it. i just like fiddling with things. maybe it's a control thing. i enjoy it the same way that i enjoy programming, i just like taking things apart and putting them back together to see how they work. all my best songs are rips of other people's songs, but i'm just not good enough to do it properly, and it turns into something else, which is maybe even better
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ha ha yeah me, too. except it's usually not better but worse
> 
> **KidAdie** : It's a social thing for me, totally. My family are all really musical. Like, my dad played bass in a local reggae band back in the 70s and 80s, he just made sure we all loved music and grew up knowing it, and playing it. My oldest brother was a DJ in the 90s, and I just used to be so obsessed with his records. My second brother is a drummer, played in loads of bands all through secondary school, and my big sister's a really amazing singer - she ended up doing backing vocals on loads of records, and been on loads of tour - like famous stuff you'd have heard of, everyone from Kylie to All Saints. She always got us us free tickets, it was so great. But my mum would go and clap so loud I'd get embarrassed.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : I can't even imagine that. Having parents who actually care about music. My parents have done pretty much everything short of smash my guitar to try to get me to stop. They think I should concentrate on my job, but my dayjob is shit. Music is my escape.
> 
> **KidAdie** : My parents are great, they just really encouraged us. I think they figured if we were making music, it would keep us out of trouble, and for the most part, it has. It's just a really good thing to be able to do with your mates.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Yeah, I totally agree with that. If I weren't making music, I'd probably be in jail or in a mental hospital.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : ha ha i reckon you probably should be anyway you pretentious twat
> 
> **MizzTing** : aw look, he's pulling my ponytails. Are you negging me, Windowlicker? Your little crush on me is so cute.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : you think your such a fucken rock star
> 
> **MizzTing** : I *AM* a rock star. Don't you get it? I'm in this for the fame. Like Bowie once sang, to go back down where I once belonged, in the back of a dream car twenty foot long. It's about love, and acceptance, and about how all the little fucking assholes back in high school who tried to tear me down and tell me I was no good, just like you do, Windowlicker? When they look at me now, when they listen to my music, they love me, and they want me. When I go onstage, I'm a *goddess*.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : in your dreams!
> 
> **MizzTing** : Dreams are all we've got, baby.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : where's eyesore? i reckon this would be the kind of subject she'd be really interested in
> 
> **Windowlicker** : i'm kinda glad she's not on this thread, she's be writing huuuge long fucking paragraphs of total bollocks
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i like eyesore's long paragraphs. she's got a different perspective on things from most people. i'd be curious to know her reasons
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Argh. Oh. I don't know. I genuinely don't. All the reasons that everyone has listed, and more?
> 
> **KidAdie** : What, to meet girls, ha ha ha ha?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : eyesore! ur back! we missed u
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, to meet boys, yeah. I was pretty shy as a kid. And I grew up with an older sister who was much prettier than I was. Making music started as a way of getting attention, of getting people to notice me when she was around. But it was more than that. Because, like, after I met Jack and got married, I just kind of assumed that I would give it up. And I found that I couldn't, that I was hooked on it. I would start sneaking off in the middle of the afternoon to go and make music when I said I was working on programming, because I *needed* to make music. So it's more complicated than that.
> 
> **MizzTing** : God, and people say *I* sound pretentious. "I don't ~want~ to make music... but I muuuuust!"
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, I don't mean it to sound like that. I mean, if I didn't do it, I'd go stark raving mad. It's the thing that keeps me sane.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : if this is u sane, i'd hate to see u mad!
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : hey, eyesore may be crazy but we love her that way. don't ever change
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i think eyesore is one of the most sensible people here
> 
> **Windowlicker** : yeah well ur a fucken freak
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Turn it down, Windowlicker. Indoor voice, please? Remember the bit about being polite to other posters even if you disagree with them?
> 
> **KidAdie** : no, it makes total sense to me. it's a way of blowing off pressure, like, if I have a bad day at college or get in a fight with my brothers or something, I go and I make a giant racket and I write a song about it, and then I feel loads better.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But it's also what CryingMinotaur was saying, about it being an escape. And what Worrywort was saying, about it being magic. It's like this alternate world, where I go to get away from the real world. A world where I get to make the rules. And say what happens and what doesn't. Except, kind of... not. Like what Thom said during the web chat, it's like the music is a block of marble, and you know there's a song in there, but sometimes it surprises you, what comes out. I thought that was a really good metaphor.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's weird, sometimes, how you think you're in control. but really, when you're making music, it's like you're giving up control to someone, or something else. you don't write music, the music writes you
> 
> **Windowlicker** : your fucken batshit, furious
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I know exactly what you mean. You become an instrument of the music, rather than the other way around.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : that's what's so beautiful and so intoxicating about it, but it's also terrifying, because you have to give yourself totally to it. it's a bit like falling in love
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can tell, by listening to your tracks, Furious, that you're so Dionysian about it. It's like total submersion, you're just completely immersed in it. In an almost Bacchanalian sense. Which is what I want from dance music, you know?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but if you dance with the maenads, you never know if they're going to worship you like a god or tear you to pieces
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Ha ha, I quite fancy dancing riotously around the forests, wearing nothing but fawn skins and ivy leaves, ripping random music producers limb from limb
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i'll bring the wineskins if you bring the leopards...
> 
> **MizzTing** : would you two GET A ROOM ALREADY?!?!?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : what the fuck are you two on about? your so confusing, i don't understand a word of it sometimes
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Never mind, it's classical mythology. The rites of Bacchus and the origins of music. I'm so impressed you know this stuff, Furious.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : come on, die geburt der tragodie aus dem feiste der musik is first year art student material
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Now you're just showing off. (I kinda like it though.)
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh yeah? what else do you like?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : eyesore and furious, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G!
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh god i'm kinda embarrassed. i didn't mean it like that!
> 
> **Windowlicker** : it's just really annoying, derailing threads with this batshit crap that no one understands
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No one's forcing you to read it, Windowlicker. There are loads of other threads at your intellectual level over on the main forum.
> 
> **MizzTing** : It's not the intellectual level. This is a Radiohead forum after all - Radiohead are so literary I bet even their roadies have a book club. It's the way you two just go off into your own private world and ignore everyone else. It's rude.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry, MizzTing. You're welcome to throw on a leopard skin dress and join us. I'm sure you'd look very fetching.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : radiohead's road crew do actually have a book club. they were reading david mitchell's number 9 dream on the european leg of the tour
> 
> **MizzTing** : ha ha ha, Furious you might be batshit crazy, but you're a hilarious maker-upper.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I think it's important to discuss this stuff, though. Get to what's important. Because have you noticed the one thing that no one on this thread has said? And I think that's what makes us such a great - and interesting - group of producers.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : What? What has no one said? Girls, friendship, craft, fame, to keep from going crazy, some batshit nonsense Furious came up with involving leopards and wineskins - sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, we've about covered it all here.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : not one person here has said money. that's weird, but also really inspiring
> 
> **KidAdie** : speak for yourself, mate. That's a really fucking middle class attitude. It's so obvious it goes without saying. I just want to get the fuck out of Peckham. Move somewhere nice, like down to Croydon, get a house with a nice big garden.
> 
> **MizzTing** : yeah, I'm with Adie here. Money is only "not a big deal" to people who have always had it. What's the point of being famous if you don't get the cash?
> 
> **Worrywort** : No way, that's completely the wrong attitude. If you want to be wealthy, become an accountant, or play the stock market. I make music because I want to make something beautiful.
> 
> **KidAdie** : easy for you to say. I don't know no accountants from Peckham.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : I am a fucking accountant. Well, trainee at least. I desperately want to get out of it. I mean, yeah, I'd be set for money, but there's more to life than money
> 
> **KidAdie** : name me one
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no, that's not what i meant. it's not wrong to want money, it's not wrong to want to better yourself, to make a living from what you do. but it's wrong to let money be your primary goal, it's wrong to let the desire for money *change* what you would do
> 
> **KidAdie** : amen. you're not so crazy after all, Furious

 

I going to have to watch that. I hadn't actually noticed that I was spending any more time talking to SleepFuriously than anyone else, but it was true. He intrigued me. Maybe it was the way that everyone else on the forum was always endlessly self promoting, but he kept back, slightly mysterious and self contained, even though I knew he was better than 3/4 of the producers on the forum. Maybe I was just shallow, and I was entranced by his link, no matter how tenuous, to Radiohead. But I was conflicted about that, like I was constantly conflicted about my love of Radiohead.

I don't know. It was complicated. I mean, it was ridiculous. I was a grown woman, nearly 30, happily married, so why did I get as giggly as a little girl about some rock band? But that was it. There were days when I woke up, especially when I had to put on my suit and go to work in Canary Wharf, standing obediently on the Docklands Light Railway with thousands of other middle aged people in suits, and I just felt a million years old. When I put Hail To The Thief on my headphones, and I just lapsed into that other world, the world where Thom Yorke looked me straight in the eye, down the tubes and cables of the internet, and sang to me, I felt so young, I felt like a squealing, excitable teenage girl again, with all the possibility in the world, just lined up before me. Their music made me feel so young, and alive, and full of joy and emotion - OK, not all of it positive emotion, some of it was sadness and grief and loss. But it made me feel *something*. Which, on grey days when I was staring through the train window at the ugly glass spaceship of Canary Wharf, was a welcome relief.

But how on earth could I explain that love to other people? Jack thought it was nuts, though he tolerated it for the sake of our sex life. There was nothing quite like watching Radiohead videos to get me in the mood, as he had learned long ago, when I first got Seven Television Commercials. But the forum, that he was less keen on. It annoyed him that I would spend entire evenings giggling over the threads there. But the people on the forum, they were the only other people who really seemed to understand *why* I loved Radiohead so much, why I needed them in my life. And sharing the obsession made me feel less insane about it.

 

> **MEETING RADIOHEAD IS EASY**
> 
>  
> 
> **CokeBaby** : so who's met Radiohead from here? How easy is it to meet them? I'm going to 4 gigs on this tour - New Jersey, Maryland, Ohio and Madison Square Garden. Which of these do you think it will be easiest to meet the band at?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i've never met radiohead. i would probably ~die~ if i were even in the same room as thom
> 
> **BearHunt** : Don't even try to meet Radiohead. They're famously grumpy and bad-tempered. Thom in particular has been known to be really rude to fans. Don't waste your time.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : that's bollocks. I've met them twice now, at Aberdeen in 97, then at Glasgow Green on the Tents tour. They were well cool, both times, especially Jonny. They didn't want to sign autographs or let us take photos, but apart from that they were really relaxed about it.
> 
> **CokeBaby** : why wouldn't they let you take photos? That's weird.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Would you want people walking up to you and firing flashbulbs in your face? Just be cool, and they'll be cool. Act like a twat and they'll be twats back to you. Common sense, really.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : one of my mates is at Oxford, yeah, and he said he saw Thom in a pub and went up to him, just to say, yeah, cool band mate, and he said Thom just gave him the fish-eye and blanked him and wouldn't even talk to him. Complete snobs, he reckons.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, how would you feel if you were just trying to have a quiet drink in your local, and people kept coming up to you and hassling you?
> 
> **KidAdie** : Yeah, but that's like their job, mate? They're entertainers, it's their job to entertain people. They're totally reliant on their fans. I don't understand why it's so hard just to be polite and say hello. It's not skin off their teeth to sign an autograph or pose for a picture. They should be more grateful.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : They totally are grateful! They really go out of their way for their fans. Think of the webchats they've done for us, think of the time they spend on the official forum. But just because they are entertainers does not give fans the right to hassle them when they're off duty. Just use your common sense.
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : lots of other bands manage to be really nice to their fans. When Muse played here last year, they stayed for nearly half an hour outside the backstage door, just signing autographs. This is why Radiohead are losing fans to Muse at such a rate, they just don't care as much.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : muse are fucking shit, m8, who wants to listen to second rate radiohead clones when you have the real thing
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : my friend was working at a record shop, and he saw Thom just walking down the street in the centre of town, and he thought it would be really nice, if Thom could just sign a few copies of the album for them, so he grabbed a few albums and went running down the street after him, and Thom just totally barked at him "if you want me to sign those you can fuck right off." I just think that's so fucking rude. Mat Bellamy would have signed them. Chris Martin would have signed them. Does Thom Yorke think he's just better than everyone else?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Maybe he was in a hurry! Maybe he had something else to do. If he starts signing autographs for one person, he's got to sign them for everyone, and there's his whole day gone. I mean, what do you want an autograph for, anyway? It's just a piece of paper with someone's name on it.
> 
> **CokeBaby** : i dunno, it's more like a reminder, a little souvenir, something to remember it by. 
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : like, you know, if i ever met thom, i would never forget it till the day i die. but i guess i'd want some kind of proof, an autograph, or a photo, just to prove it happened.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I guess so. But it's just like, when people are selling stuff, I never understand why it's worth so much more with an autograph on it. It just seems like pure profiteering. So I can understand why Thom didn't want to sign autographs for a shop. Like, that's not special to the person that's just going to buy it, as opposed to the fan who actually meets them and has a reminder of it.
> 
> **KidAdie** : you're so in love with him, Lucy, that you'd just explain away anything he did. "Thom Yorke did 9/11" oh no, he was just having a bad day, he didn't mean to blow up any planes.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : And some people just feel so entitled to other people's time and space and attention, just because they think they're famous! Christ, just from the way that some fans have treated me on this forum, I have a lot of sympathy for Radiohead, if they don't want to deal with that shit every day of their lives.
> 
> **BearHunt** : you are such a drama queen, Eyesore. No one cares about your life
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's exactly it, though. I wish people cared less about my life, and left my MySpace and my personal life and personal photos out of the forum. So yeah, I kinda feel for Radiohead when people get invasive of their personal space.
> 
> **CokeBaby** : but, like, I've spent a lot of money on the band. I'm going to four gigs on this tour! That's not even counting travel. I've bought every album, every single, I've bought a t-shirt on every tour, and other merch. I've spent a lot of time and a lot of money and a lot of devotion following this band. So, like, the least the guy can do is sign me an autograph. What is it, like, thirty seconds?
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : you guys are totally exaggerating! They were fine in Aberdeen, they signed my ticket and everything. I'll scan it for you if you don't believe me!
> 
> **MizzTing** : They were really cool at the gig in Berlin. They were all totally relaxed and friendly. Thom went on and played a DJ set in a bar nearby afterwards, we bought him drinks and he played some Ellen Allien tracks for us. A friend of mine even said she saw Jonny and Colin in an art gallery the next afternoon - she said hello and they asked if she knew where Hansa by the Wall recording studio had been. She would have offered to take them and show the around but she couldn't leave the gallery as her only colleague was at lunch. She said they were great, really friendly and polite. Just don't act like an idiot and you'll be fine.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's exactly it. I've seen the way that people act when they're around rock stars, and people just lose their shit, and they act in ways that they would not treat their worst enemies, and then they go off and say "oh, thom's an arsehole."
> 
> **KidAdie** : but I wouldn't act like an arsehole. I'd be cool. But the whole thing of refusing photographs, that just seems really, I dunno, diva-ish. I'd be so damn flattered if someone wanted to take my picture. Especially if it were a cute chick.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sure it's cute and flattering, like, the first 200 times it happens. But then it becomes a total drag. The things that I've seen people pull with rock stars - walk up to them and scream straight in their faces. Interrupt their conversations. Go up to them when they're with their partner or their family and just push their girlfriend out of the way, and be really rude and just shove their way in - even when people are eating. It's like, Jesus Christ, have you no manners?
> 
> **KidAdie** : alright, that's out of order, I wouldn't act like that. It just seems unfair to treat every fan like a criminal just coz a few people are arseholes
> 
> **CokeBaby** : alright, so what should I do if I don't want to look like an asshole? Coz I really want to meet them, but I don't want them to hate me.
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : why do you want to meet them so much anyway? They're not gods. They're just people. This is not a reality show, it's not like the fame or the magic is going to rub off on you. I just hate the way people treat it like they're a fucking celebrity sideshow. The music is the important part. The music and the politics. People just get really hung up on the people that make the music, and forget about the message.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : earth to talkshowhost, the mothership is calling you, put your tin helmet on
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : fuck off you ignorant child. wake up, man, the fucking planet is dying, and you're all banging on about meeting ~celebrities~
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Just be polite, CokeBaby. Don't be rude, don't be invasive, don't interrupt, and ask permission before you do anything like take a photo.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : x-post and TSH, I have sympathy with your politics, I really do. But you know, we're all human beings. We're all curious about other human beings. It's perfectly natural to love a piece of art, and be curious about the people that made it.
> 
> **CokeBaby** : I just really want to say thank you, you know? Thank you for the music, because it means so much to me. It changed my life. I wouldn't be the person I am today without it. Is that so awful?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it's not awful at all. Trust me, musicians love to hear a genuine thank you from their fans. That's what makes it all worthwhile. To know that you touched someone, to know that your music was important to someone. That's what makes it - not the money, the fame, the adulation - just knowing that you made a difference to someone.
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : so I don't understand why they can't take that moment to talk to us. They owe it to us. Like, we admire them, we are the ones who put them up there, on that stage. Don't we deserve some time, some attention in return?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Why? Why do you think you deserve anything? Isn't their music, and the time they give you onstage enough? That's what I mean by *entitlement*.
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : Because it's art, man. It affects us, so personally. What they do isn't like a normal job. It touches our lives in really personal ways.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : but you get the music, you get the performance, isn't that enough? Why do you think they owe you anything more? Like, what gives you the right to follow someone down the road, shouting at them to sign some albums, because you like their music? Like, would you do that, if there were a great chef and you really liked the food they made? Would you hang around outside the kitchen door and follow them home, insisting that they *owe* you their personal time because you like their food? Or would you just eat the food, leave a tip if it's really good, and go home happy and well-fed?
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : It's not the same! Food doesn't touch your soul in the same way music does.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : So enjoy the music. What difference does it matter if you meet the person who makes it.
> 
> **MizzTing** : You're such a liar, Lucy. And a bit of a hypocrite. Because you're so obviously the biggest fangirl of all of us, but then you act like you don't want to meet them and it's like you're looking down on people who do want to meet them.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I DIDN'T SAY THAT. I said up above that it's perfectly natural to be curious about other human beings. But it's just... I dunno. It's complicated.
> 
> **MizzTing** : It doesn't seem very complicated to me. You clearly have a total clit-on for Thom Yorke - which I can totally understand. But then you're all "oh no, it's just about the music, maaaan" and that just seems like bullshit. Own your fandom, girl.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it's more complicated than that. Like, I think I'm more into the idea of Thom Yorke, more than the actual person. I suppose, in a way, I'm glad that I met Radiohead before I fell in love with their music. Because I didn't have any expectations, and I could just accept them as just nice blokes we were playing a gig with. Because now, like, having fallen in love with their music... I dunno. It's like there's so much pressure. I have too many expectations of them which they, as people, would never be able to live up to now. Like, meeting this funny little bloke Thom and expecting him to be "OMG IT'S THOM YORKE THE SINGER OF RADIOHEAD!!!!!11eleventy" would be like meeting Christopher Reeve and expecting him to be Superman. I know most of it's in my head, not in his body. But it does my head in.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : wait, what, when did you play a gig with radiohead?
> 
> **KidAdie** : WHAT? When were you in a band, Lucy? When did you meet Radiohead? Is there something you're not telling us?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : EYESORE YOU'VE BEEN KEEPING SECRETS!!!!!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's not that big a deal. It was like a dozen years ago. I don't even remember if they were Radiohead yet, or if they were still On A Friday. It's really not as exciting as it sounds, and I wouldn't have even thought about it twice if they hadn't later turned into, you know... ~Radiohead~ as we know them now.
> 
> **BearHunt** : You saw Radiohead - you *played with* Radiohead back when they were still unknown, and you just didn't think to tell us?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Eyesore, you are a woman of many secrets! What else do you think she's holding out on us?

 

I bit my lip and tried to back out of the conversation. Why the fuck had I told them that? I'd been drinking while posting on the internet, that was always a bad idea. But with Jack away, scouting for gallery space in the Provinces, it took away the loneliness of rattling around the huge flat by myself. I shouldn't have said anything, I knew what they were like. But I didn't know why they were making such a big deal out of it. I wanted to log off and leave them too their wild fantasies, but my Private Conversations icon pinged. SleepFuriously. Damn, did I really want to have this conversation? But then again, if he was _in_ with the staff of W.A.S.T.E. maybe he wouldn't be a total fanboy about it. I desperately wanted to talk about it, to explain it to someone, preferably someone who would understand, who would get it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and SleepFuriously take their conversations off-board, as she opens up about her real life, and he confesses hat he has a long-term IRL connection to the band. On-board, speculation grows as to his identity, especially as Radiohead announce a new UK tour, and the board members start planning to meet up.

> **SleepFuriously** : what radiohead gig did you play at?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Seriously, Furious, it's not that big a deal. I barely remember it, we didn't keep in contact afterwards. I was as surprised as anyone else when they got as good as they did and became as successful as they did.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no, i'm just curious. i was at those early gigs. i just wondered if i might have seen your band.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't want to say. I'm really embarrassed. You can't tell anyone on the forum.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : worse than on a friday in 1989? i don't think so! come on. tell.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh, alright. It was at the The Venue. In Oxford. It would have been about 1991.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : come on give me a clue. was it upstairs or downstairs? i saw loads of bands at the venue. on a friday must have played there a dozen times in 91!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Upstairs. But you probably didn't see us, we were rubbish.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : on a friday would have been the support upstairs? i'm trying to think who played... wait, you weren't in back to the planet, were you?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Ha ha, no. Much, much worse.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i can't think who else...? wait, i'm going to dig out that photo of you again, see if it rings a bell
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You wouldn't recognise me, I had a completely different hair colour. even my mum wouldn't recognise me in a pink wig
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : pink wig? wait... oh my god. i've just worked it out. holy shit! really? 'raving, raving, raving, all around the m25' - that was u, wasn't it?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Furious, you can't tell anyone! Promise me you'll keep it quiet.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you were in 2 Too Many! i can't fucking believe it! 'techno techno music, makes me want to dance, techno techno music, puts me in a trance!' what a gig! the glitter cannon! i swear i was sneezing glitter for a week afterwards
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh god you *were* there.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you lot were proper famous! you'd just been on The Word and everything! wow, no wonder u know so much about producing. wow. i cannot believe one of 2 Too Many turned up on the radiohead board. Now I'm impressed.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You are kidding me, right? Go on, take the piss. I deserve it, right?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i'm not taking the piss, i am genuinely impressed
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You've apparently known Radiohead since they were On A Friday, and you're impressed by 2TM? You are batshit after all. ;-)
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : go on! which one were you? the really cute one?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, the really cute one was my sister. I was the ugly one who wrote the songs and triggered on the samples on the keyboard
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no, you were the one i liked! you were the little one in the mad pink wig, with the keytar, weren't you? that was so brilliant! wow. we thought it was the best KLF art prank ever. i mean, it was a KLF side project, wasn't it?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, it was and it wasn't. Me and my sister, we used to do a KLF fanzine, all about raving and acid house and pretending we were from Detroit when we were really from Dulwich - with all this mad Illuminati stuff thrown in. We were just kids, I was like 17 and completely clueless. We sent Bill Drummond a copy, and he thought it would be hilarious to unleash these two teenage terror sisters on the world to prove that The Manual worked. We were going to be like his answer to the Reynolds Sisters. But I got so obsessed with it, I actually sat down with Jim Cauty and got him to teach me how to use all the gear.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : that's kinda cool actually. i didn't know the whole story. it was just such a weird gig. nobody knew what to make of it all, least of all on a friday. most mismatched support i've ever seen
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's so weird that you were there! They were nice lads, though. I do remember that. Thom was so intimidating, though, even back then - he was the kind of bloke that it was obvious he just wouldn't tolerate any bullshit, and we were 110% bullshit. Jonny was so scared he hid from us backstage. I do remember that only Coz came over and talked to us, but then he tried to chat up my sister *rolls eyes*
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : hahahaha some things never change
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : They changed so much, though. Honestly, they weren't really very good back then. Not that we were, either, mind you, we were pretty awful. But it was just kinda weird, seeing a rubbish band that supported you once in like 1991 growing by leaps and bounds and slowly becoming the biggest band in the world.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : they weren't that bad. come on
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Sorry, I guess if you went to all the early shows, you must be a really big fan. OK, I won't say anything. It's not charitable to slag off your support band. They were lovely lads. Just a bit too heavy on the Smiths adulation for me. I never really got The Smiths.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : aw i loved the smiths. but if you were such a rock star, how'd you end up a computer programmer administering a radiohead fan forum? shouldn't you be on top of the pops or something?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** :  Life had other plans for us, I guess.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : isn't it weird, looking at radiohead now, though? you're not bitter?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Nah, why would I be? I'm glad it worked out for them. It couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of blokes. They worked hard, and we just didn't. My sister got really bored with the whole pop star thing. The K Foundation moved on to bigger and better art pranks. I met Jack through them, and he was the stability I needed. I went from this crazy rock star lifestyle of raving all night and ecstasy binges followed by going on children's television a few hours later - to being this famous artist's girlfriend, and then wife. It was what I needed. I've seen what the industry does to young, naive girls. He probably saved my life.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you don't miss it, though? i hear your new songs and you're really good!  too good to just disappear. you could do all that again. you should,
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't know that I want to. Not like that. I don't think I'm cut out for it. I mean, it's weird, but I did kind of follow Radiohead's career vicariously, and watching things like Meeting People Is Easy, I just felt for them so much. I could never go through anything like that. If you've known them a long time, you must have seen that close up, right? I just feel like I got out at the right time. I got out when it stopped being fun. Anyway look, Furious, you're one to talk. why don't you do something with those amazing tracks you sent me? You didn't even submit anything to the contest, did you?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : your too nice, it was just a scribble, really
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I mean it, Furious. You're way better than I am. You're probably the most talented producer on this forum - in terms of sheer creativity. I mean, yeah, there are probably guys who are technically better at the skills, but you can learn that through practice. You've got the vision, and the melodic sense - why don't you do something with *your* tracks instead of hassling me?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i wasn't hassling you! i swear to god. i just think your stuff is so good. but if your happy with it, that's all that matters. right? please don't ever think i'm hassling you
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry, I guess I'm just so used to Jack always giving me a hard time. Like, nothing I do is every good enough for his standards. It doesn't matter to him, if it makes me happy. If I'm not making money off it, he just thinks it's worthless.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i dunno, i can see both sides. like i said on the forum, i think it's wrong to make art, solely for the purpose of making money. like, it's one thing to want to be successful, but quite another to change your art, to compromise yourself and your ideals in order to become successful. that's just completely wrong, and it leads to bad art. but at the same time, i really hate people who are precious about art, and don't want to be successful at all, ever, because they think it's automatically selling out. that really winds me up, i think it's just so counter productive.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's not that I'm afraid of selling out, Furious! FFS, I have no time for that shit. It's that I don't want to do it if it's not fun. Like, this is my hobby, this is what I do for enjoyment, for relaxation. If it becomes my dayjob, where I constantly have to worry about what other people think of it, then that sucks the enjoyment out of it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but wouldn't you love it, if you could do that thing, that you love, and make a living at it? so you didn't have to have a dayjob?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But it makes me not love it, to have Jack hanging over my shoulder and telling me that if I don't market it, and don't sell it, that makes it no good.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : fuck jack
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I do, thanks.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i'm sorry. maybe he's trying to be supportive?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore:** I dunno. It's weird. It doesn't feel like it. Sometimes I swear that Jack is actually trying to sabotage me. Which is ridiculous. But it's like he wants a wife who is just successful enough that I'm an ornament to make him look good, but not successful enough to be threatening to his career.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** :  i can't understand being like that. my partner and i, we support each other unconditionally. i want her to succeed for her own sake, because it will make her happy and fulfilled, not because it would make me look better or worse. i always thought i was bad at relationships, but jack sounds so much worse
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, I don't mean it like that. Shit, I feel so disloyal now. I love him, I really do. And he is so talented, and so clever, he just makes my jaw drop, the things that he's done. When I first met him, I just thought he was the smartest man I'd ever met. He completely wowed me. He was doing this project with Bill Drummond, tracing Ley Lines across Britain in tandem with the National Grid. He got all these neon tubes and stuck them in a field along these massive pylons near the Didcot Power Station. And they would just glow, by themselves, this unearthly light. Then he went up in an ultralight aircraft and filmed it from above, just miles and miles of these uncanny glowing tubes along the power lines. His big trick was that he would electrify things, and turn common structures into radio transmitters. He and Bill worked out this plan where they were going to electrify the massive fence around Buckingham Palace and turn it into a radio transmitter and broadcast the Sex Pistols' version of God Save The Queen for the Jubilee last year.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : wait, i saw that installation near didcot power station. that was really incredible. and hugely political, too, it just made you realise how much power those big coal-burning plants waste. shocking, really. made you think, which all good art really should
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I told you, he's really clever.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : hang on, your husband jack - is that jack dunbar? as in turned the hayward gallery into a giant faraday cage jack dunbar?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : that's the one.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : christ. he is really famous. we saw that after reading all the controversy in the guardian. my girlfriend really liked it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Yup. Son of Joseph Dunbar of the publishing house of the same name.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : really? shit! no way. i had no idea they were related
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : yeah, Jack likes to keep that bit quiet. Likes to paint himself as a self-made man, working class hero and all that. But we live in a posh Bloomsbury flat bought for him with family money. Does that put a slightly different spin on his obsession with making money?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : there's nothing wrong with coming from a well-heeled background. people can't help what they were born into. i'm pretty middle class myself.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I think there is if you lie about it. And I think there really is if you claim to make money the sole measure of one's success as an artist (or a human being) - when you didn't even make that money, you inherited it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but jack dunbar... he's a big name. he's done some huge shows, i'm sure it's not all just inherited. is it? don't disillusion me. i always had a lot of respect for the bloke. i like his work. and i really respect him for telling charles saatchi to fuck off. when he said he wouldn't sell his work to saatchi because it was thatcher's tainted money, i really thought that showed an enormous amount of integrity. not many artists would have made that call
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Not many artists could afford to.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : wow. just... wow. you're full of surprises tonight. you've given me so much to think about. i had no idea... about any of this. about you, most of all. i really wish i'd gone over to speak to you that night at the venue.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Ha ha, things could have been really different. Hell, you never know, i could have ended up married to you instead of jack. might have been an improvement
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : things aren't that bad with jack, are they?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry. I'm probably just drunk enough that I shouldn't go on the internet. Please don't tell anyone else on the forum, but I trust you. And Christ, I feel like I'm being so disloyal to Jack, saying this stuff. I love him, I do. But this is just why I get so defensive when people start pushing me to sell my music.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : fuck. yeah, i guess i kind of understand. don't worry, i won't say anything, you can trust me.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I thought so. I get a good vibe off you, Furious.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah, me too. i like your vibe, eyesore
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : ha ha, call me Lucy. Anyway I gotta go to bed.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : me, too. to dream of glitter guns and anime girls with pink hair, raving raving raving, around the m25
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Shut it. The only place I rave these days, is round my bedroom.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i'd love to see you raving all round your bedroom
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : STOP flirting and go to bed.

 

I went to sleep smiling. I did get a good vibe off Furious, despite his angry name. It was just the way that he seemed to actually be interested in me, the questions that he asked, not invasive or prying, but just like he was trying to understand me and where I was coming from. And then it struck me - it had been so long since anyone asked me what *I* wanted or where I was at, creatively. I had got so used to fulfilling that role for Jack - always asking him what he was thinking, what he was planning. It was actually a shock to realise that it really wasn't mutual, and it had taken the kind questions of a complete stranger on the internet to put my finger on what was missing. Was I bitter? Well, maybe I was, but it wasn't about Radiohead's good fortune.

Jack came back from his scouting expedition in a jubilant mood the next afternoon. He had another art show an and accompanying residency booked, this time out in Marlborough. It was only a tiny market town out in the Wiltshire Downs, but it was an incredibly wealthy part of the country, and he reckoned he might actually sell a few choice pieces to holidaying collectors in between browsing antique shops. As part of the deal, he got the loan of a cottage for 6 months, a couple of miles out in the country, down a dirt track halfway up the side of a chalk outcrop. That, I could tell, was the real draw, not the pokey arts centre converted from an old schoolhouse. Jack loved anything he could get for free, so the idea of a free house in the country, that was irresistible.

Even just from the photos he'd snapped on his digital camera, I fell in love with the low brick house, seemingly cornered on all sides by the hanging woods on the side of the hill. Jack told me there was a little village clustered round a tiny shop that was half post office and half a pub that looked like someone's living room, with pints of nutty Wiltshire ale frothing into rustic mugs. But Wiltshire? Rural Wiltshire might be a problem. In cities, I was usually OK, but in the sleep idylls of rural England, I knew I would stick out like a sore thumb.

"Come on! How can you possibly refuse? Fresh air, good honest country food, the forest right on our doorstep... and best of all, no internet," Jack urged, by way of encouragement.

"No internet?" I gulped, putting down the camera and staring at him, horror-struck. How was I supposed to live without the internet?

"I thought it might be good for us, get away from it all. Spend some time with each other." His face looked open and honest, but I scanned it for subterfuge.

I didn't spend that much time on the internet. Did I? Was it really impacting on our relationship? I thought suddenly of my drunken confessions to SleepFuriously and felt more than slightly disloyal. "But what am I going to do about work? If there's no internet I won't be able to telnet in to the servers."

"You only work three days a week," Jack shrugged. "Can't you shift it so you do those three days all in a row, then take the train out to Wiltshire for four days? I could pick you up at Swindon."

I stared at him. Swindon? All I knew of Swindon was that it was where Windowlicker was from, and if he was representative, I had no desire to spend any time in those environs. "Can I think it over?"

"We could go out there for the first two weeks of August. Have a nice holiday, away from the city heat. I need to go out there to set up the exhibit, but you could come out with me, make up your mind if you want to stay."

"You mean, you've already agreed? Without consulting me? And you're going to go and live out there, whether I come with you for four days a week or not?"

Jack just shrugged. "Of course I did. It's way too good a deal to turn down."

"And my wishes, my career, my life... that just means nothing to you?"

"I don't see why that even comes into it? Anyway I don't know why you're making such a fuss. I thought you'd be pleased. It's a beautiful house, in a beautiful setting. You'd be a fool to refuse it."

I was still fuming at work the next day. I tried to think about it, but my mind rebelled and refused to even contemplate it, so instead of going to speak to my boss at lunchtime about rearranging my hours, I found myself logging back onto the Loophole to escape into fantasy. There was a thread about the US tour, and CokeBaby was effusive with praise - he'd been to two shows already on the tour, and then finally actually fulfilled his dream at the third show by meeting the band outside the tourbus afterwards, and reported that they were actually all really lovely, even Thom, who had smiled, asked if he'd done a remix, and signed his ticket without the slightest complaint after being told that he was a Loophole regular. It still weirded me out that Thom was aware of the forum, no matter how much Jonny posted.

 

> **US, EUROPE... BUT WHAT ABOUT A UK TOUR?**
> 
>  
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : More tickets went up on W.A.S.T.E. today. They've booked shows in Germany, France and Belgium, but there's still nothing in the UK. This just isn't fair! The last set of shows were in such small venues most of us didn't even get tickets! Is that all we're going to get? Has Radiohead fallen so much in love with America that they've forgotten about Britain?
> 
> **MizzTing** : I'm not complaining! I've got tickets for Berlin and Hamburg and I'm thinking about taking the train to the Netherlands as well! This is so exciting!
> 
> **Windowlicker** : i just want them to play somewhere other than london, manchester and glasgow on this tour. what about the west? how about bristol or cardiff or somewhere reasonably near me?
> 
> **BearHunt** : They've got nothing booked for the last two weeks of November. I imagine they'll take December off for the holidays, but it could still happen.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : if we have to wait until next year i'll be right cheesed off
> 
> **CokeBaby** : cheesed off? WTF does that mean? you limeys are so funny the way you talk all english
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : I'm not English, mate!
> 
> **CokeBaby** : but you're from the UK aren't you?
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : ignorant yanks. Edinburgh is NOT in England you tosser
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : I'm sure there will be announcements soon. I heard off my mates at W.A.S.T.E. that they're just trying to get the ticketing sorted out.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : do you think the shows will be 14 and over again or are they going to be 18 and up like they were for shepherds bush?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It'd be nice if they played Shepherd's Bush again, we could have a forum meetup!
> 
> **KidAdie** : forum meetup? in london? that'd be well sick! i'm trying to think what pubs are near the empire
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : DON'T HAVE IT IN A PUB. that's just not fair. i'm not old enough to get into a pub
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Really? Oh christ. Now I feel *really* awkward about talking dirty around you on the Hot Buttered Thoms thread. How old are you?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i'm 15
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : FUCKIN' 'ELL oops, I mean ::censored:: blinkin' 'eck. Really? How old were you when you started going to Radiohead gigs?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : my mum took me to south park when i was 13. it was my first concert ever
> 
> **MizzTing** : really? Wow. I'm jealous that Radiohead was your first concert. Mine was the Scorpions. *shame*
> 
> **Windowlicker** : mine was the prodigy
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : Rush
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : I've got you all beat. The Shamen at Barrowlands when they were still a rubbish rock band.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : OMG ha ha ha ha, you're older than I thought, Minotaur!
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : the Scottish music scene is so fucking shite these days. Are Radiohead ever going to play back up here again?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : end of november, glasgow and aberdeen
> 
> **BearHunt** : The Shamen were better as a rock band than they ever were with that stupid godawful "Ebeneezer Goode" techno shit.
> 
> **KidAdie** : come on, GOT ANY SALMON? SORTED!!! is one of the greatest raps of all time. mr c was brilliant
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : Glasgow *and* Aberdeen? Really? How do you know that, Furious?
> 
> **Windowlicker** : space aliens beamed it to him on his tin helmet, right, furious?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no bristol, sorry, windowlicker but cardiff on the 24th
> 
> **KidAdie** : for real, Furious? Are you having us on?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : nope. just confirmed
> 
> **KidAdie** : where in London are they playing, then?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : earl's court. 2 nights. see you there. x
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What, really? You going to come to our forum meetup, Furious? It would be fantastic to meet you all.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : that's perfect! it's usually 14 and over at earl's court. just don't have the meetup in a pub, alright?
> 
> **Windowlicker** : there's a pizza express down the road, we can meet there
> 
> **MizzTing** : sod Paris, I might just see if I can get the train over to London for that show if you're all having a meet up!
> 
> **BearHunt** : hang on, why are you all talking like this is going to happen? Do we have anything else to confirm this? SleepFuriously believes that there is a global government conspiracy to cover up the causes of Bee disappearances, are you really going to take his word for it that Radiohead are playing Earl's Court?
> 
> **TalkShowHost** : George Monbiot wrote about Bee Colony Collapse in the Guardian, it's totally legit. You just don't like Furious because he likes good music like Autechre and Boards of Canada instead of all that rock shit you listen to.
> 
> **Windowlicker** : no, he doesn't like furious because he's batshit crazy and everyone knows it! i bet he made those shows up, just to get attention

 

My email suddenly pinged, and I went to check it. An email from W.A.S.T.E. - announcing a UK tour including all the shows that Furious had just mentioned on the forum. Oh, what a chancer, pretending like he had advance information to impress us all. But then I saw the timestamp on the email. It had been sent at 14:00 on the dot. SleepFuriously had made the first post about the Scottish shows at 13:38. Even if Allen's server was running a few minutes slow, which it often was, that was still twenty minutes before the official announcement. But then again, maybe an earlier leak had happened on the official forum? I checked, but the predictable excitement over the UK tour all started at 14:00, after the W.A.S.T.E. email. How on earth had he known? OK, it might be his personal contact with the guys at the website, but... Hell, maybe he was one of the W.A.S.T.E. crew. The Oxford lot on the main forum were a strange and insular gang, with their inside jokes about their office cat. It was all quite incestuous, the Zodiac lot and the Shifty Disco lot and the Courtyard lot. If Furious had been going to local gigs in Oxford since 1991, he had to know the whole gang. 

I clicked over to the Nightshift website and looked at their forum - Radiohead's management had sometimes been known to post there, secret gigs and things. Yes, they showed the IP address of posters, presumably to dissuade trolling and flaming in a small, inbred scene. I read some gossip threads about the Truck Festival, and about various little gigs at the Wheatsheaf and The Point. Someone on there was posting from a similar IP address to the ones that Thom and Nigel had used - but it was very obviously one of the blue-liners from the W.A.S.T.E. office. It only made sense, if they shared offices, that they would share a network. But SleepFuriously's IP wasn't there.

If only I could see the addresses on the official forum. I checked AtEase web - they logged IP addresses, but SleepFuriously didn't come up in a member search, and the forum was such a mess of flamewars and spam that I couldn't be bothered looking for him for long. I shot off an email to Allen asking if he knew Furious's IRL identity, then tried to get back to work, resisting the urge to check the Loophole for updates on the meet-up planning until I'd finished work for the day. 

He popped up on messenger later that evening, buzzing with the same curiosity the whole forum had developed.

 

> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i don't know who he is. everyone's curious now. but if anyone would know, i'd have thought it'd be you. i'm not criticising, but you do know that you two have logged nearly 800K of private messages over the past month?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Shit! Really? Do you need the space?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : no, but you really should take that shit to email if you guys are gonna flirt like that
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : We don't flirt! We're just friends.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : lucy, he pops up on every thread you're on. he's as predictable as an alarm clock. me and Adie have put money on it - every time you post, he turns up within the next 5 posts or so. have you not noticed?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm married! And he knows I'm married! And he has a girlfriend, anyway, it's not like that.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : sure, whatever you say, luce.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Men and women can be just friends, you know. Do you know who he is, though?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : no idea. itsamystery.gif
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : do you think he's one of the W.A.S.T.E. crew?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i dunno, it is weird that he knew the tourdates before even w.a.s.t.e got confirmation of them
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Really?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : he might be management. they do tend to keep an eye on the forums to gauge the reactions of the fans. he joined just after jonny and stanley joined, but before thom and nigel
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Wait, what? Stanley is a member of the forum?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah he never posts, but sometimes i see him reading, late at night
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : do you ever sleep?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ha ha, not really no. but nah, i check performance logs of who logs on when to make sure the server load is balanced
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Damn. I just looked. SlowlyDownward has a different IP address. He's registered to the same Radiohead IP range as Thom. So there goes that theory. I just thought it might be him because Furious knows a lot about art. At least, well, he knows stuff about my husband.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : WEE-OOH WEE-OOH PSYCHO VIOLIN NOISES are you sure he's not just stalking you ?!?!??!?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Fuck off.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i'm just kidding.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Look, I'm not complaining. He's lovely. I do actually think he's a genuinely nice bloke. I'm just curious as to who he is, and how he knows the stuff he knows.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : he could be anyone. he could be management. he could be higher up in w.a.s.t.e than the website guys. he could be road crew.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I didn't even think that! He did say that he'd been to a lot of their gigs, especially back in the early days. That would make sense, that he'd been to so many of their gigs, if he were their roadie.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ha ha ha ha, one of radiohead's sweaty roadies is totally in love with you. i bet it's plank.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Plank would know a fuck of a lot more about compression and about monitor inputs. Maybe it's their lighting designer - that would explain the interest in Jack's artwork. He did a lot of stage design for the KLF back in the day.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : try to get him to come to the meet-up, then we'll find out
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Are you going to come to the meetup?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yup! i'm scared of that there london, but i'll come down if you lot threaten to go to the pub without me
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : We can't have it in a pub. PrincessTelex isn't old enough to go to a pub, remember?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : jesus christ, don't remind me. she is actually young enough to be my daughter, and that scares the shit out of me.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Do you have kids, Allen?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah, hang on, what year is it? my wife and i got married in '88 so that's 15 years. which means my daughter is 14 and that makes my son 10. christ for someone who's so good at maths i'm shit at dates
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I didn't even know you were married!
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : well, i didn't even know you were a girl until 2 weeks ago did i?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Alright, fair play. I guess none of us really know that much about any of each other. It's just weird, we spend so much time talking to each other, but there's like this gulf between online and IRL. I'm a girl, you're married with two kids, SleepFuriously is a roadie or lighting crew or whatever he is... I don't even know. And none of us know this about each other.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : on the internet, no one knows you're a dog! woof!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It just makes me wonder, like no one is who they say they are. Or are they even lying? Do we just make so many assumptions about people that we're shocked when they get punctured?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : relax. no need to get philosophical, eyesore. if you're so curious about sleep furiously and who he is, why don't you just ask him?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Because people get weird and evasive when the music industry is concerned! I mean, you know how people jumped on me for saying I played a gig with Radiohead 12 years ago? How do you think people would treat him if they knew he was working for them?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah i know. because the weird stalker crap that you and telexie and Adie and a load of other posters have been up to - that's just so less invasive and stalkery than just asking the bloke flat out, do you work for radiohead?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Alright, that's enough. I don't care who Furious is. He's my friend, and that's enough. I'm not being a hypocrite any more. it doesn't matter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy's IRL relationship becomes quite rocky as her husband accepts a job out in Wiltshire without even asking her. Especially when she misses the ticket sale for the Radiohead tour because she's too busy helping him move.
> 
> And she comes home to London to confront the possibility that her online flirtation with SleepFuriously may have turned to a dangerous crush.

Jack took ages to pack for Wiltshire. He rented a white van to carry all his equipment down to the arts centre, then borrowed his mum's old estate car on semi-permanent loan to carry him and his personal effects down to Marlborough, then drive about rural lanes to save him having to muck about with the once-daily rural bus service. He drove down with Luke in the white van, who promised to drive the thing back to London once unloaded, and I followed in the Volvo.

Wiltshire was pretty - I would certainly grant it that. We left the M4 at Hungerford and drove on deserted A-roads through the overhanging wilderness of Savernake Forest, like a green tunnel. I didn't mind Marlborough - it was a nice enough little market town with a Waitrose and a pokey independent bookshop, though the people seemed very much like hunting-shooting-fishing types, the kind of tweedy posh that didn't feel the need to advertise their poshness to make you feel completely out of place. I even got followed round a cornershop by an over eager security guard - _that_ didn't happen much in Bloomsbury any more - and decided not to bother with many more shops, especially not the Cath Kidson selling boutiques. I hung about while Luke and Jack unloaded, we had lunch in town, then he went back to London, and Jack and I got back in the car and drove out to the cottage.

If I'd thought the town was remote, the cottage was another world, half a mile outside a tiny village, all the way at the end of a deeply rutted dirt track. Jack swore at the road, insisting he wouldn't have brought the car up it if he'd known how bad the surface was, the track winding through overhanging trees, with steep banks built up on either side, until it finally emerged into a field, giving me my first view of the house. The setting was beautiful, a little plot nestled among the trees at the base of the hanging wood that covered the side of a chalk outcrop, so that it seemed as if the woods would swoop down and reclaim the house at any moment. But the house was ramshackle, and I couldn't help but wonder if setting this place up as a residency for artists was a cheap tax write-off, a way of using a house that was clearly too rundown for the holiday cottage market. Various outbuildings seemed to be in the process of reverting to nature, so covered in vines I could barely make out the brickwork. The house, though, seemed to be reasonably watertight, albeit dusty and stinking of must. As Jack buried himself in trying to sort out the water, the ancient heating system and the electrics, I wandered from room to room on the upper floor, throwing open shutters, opening windows and trying to air out the rooms. The master bedroom, at least, seemed habitable, with recently changed bedclothes awaiting our arrival, but it was the small room at the back, that intrigued me. It looked out straight into the darkest part of the forest, as if the trees were crowding in for a closer look at the strange creatures who had come to reclaim the house from the woods.

After making sure there was at least hot water, Jack made some excuse about getting back to the arts centre, and went off and left me, alone in the house, to sort out the unpacking and generally making the place homely. Well, at least I didn't have to deal with the stares in Marlborough. I did the best I could in the kitchen, rinsing everything to clear out the dust, then returned upstairs, where it felt less damp, at least. After I'd arranged Jack's clothes to try and fill out the wardrobes, I padded through, back into the spare bedroom and again stared out the window into the woods, feeling distinctly like someone was watching me. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, just unusual. Oddly, though our flat in Bloomsbury backed out onto private gardens that we shared with at least a dozen other buildings, I never had quite the sense of being under observation that I had in that bedroom, staring into the dark depths of the forest. Now that Jack had left, the silence in the house seemed almost overpowering, but as I leaned out the window, I realised that the woods were absolutely alive with birdsong.

I dug in my own baggage until I found my laptop, and set it up on the desk in the spare room, then went back through Jack's things until I found the cheap travel microphone he often used to tape his talks. Lowering the cable out the window, I managed to hook it over the branch of a nearby chestnut, and opened up ProTools to record the almost musical symphony of bird song and chatter. Almost immediately, a blackbird hopped onto the branch to investigate the wriggling black cable it must have hoped was some kind of giant worm. Puffing itself up, it let out its distinctive call two or three times, then gave up, unimpressed and flew off. I pulled the microphone back in, hoping it hadn't been damaged by the quick pecks, then sat down with my digital editor, listening back to the birdsong in all its gorgeous clarity, then copying it to carve it up, slice at it and rearrange it into its component phrases, stretching and pitch-shifting them to highlight the melody.

The day got completely away from me, sitting in that haunted-feeling little room, my back to the door, looking out the window into the woods, working on this odd track based on birdcalls. I set up some soft-synths and created this sparse electronic soundscape, highlighting and harmonising with the bird-calls, then wove the whole thing into a minimal beat. The drums didn't quite work - I knew I'd have to rip them out and redo them once I got back to London, but I needed something to keep the pace, slow, not quite dance music, but a rolling, fast walking pace

When Jack returned, he scared the shit out of me. I had got so used to the feeling of being watched by the woods, that his sudden appearance, reflected in the glass of the upper window, startled me badly. I played him the new track, and he listened intently, but then he shook his head long-sufferingly.

"I don't know why you keep recording these little sound-sculptures if you don't plan on doing anything with them. You should submit this to the Arts Council, submit it to Fat Cat Records, just bloody do something with it, instead of hiding yourself away like a weird electronic nun."

"I do them because they're beautiful," I tried to explain, but Jack rolled his eyes and retreated back downstairs, telling me that he'd picked up groceries at Waitrose on the way back. Groceries that I, of course, was expected to sort out, put away or turn into dinner while he slumped in the cool, stone-floored sitting room with a refreshing glass of whisky and ginger, but that was par for the course, really.

We had a nice evening together, but he left again, early the next morning, to finish setting up his exhibition, leaving me alone in the echoing house. I had definitely decided it was haunted, now. Things that I left on the counter had wandered down into the sink, and doors seemed to open and close of their own accord, not even in synch with the sudden gusts of breeze that blew down off the chalk uplands. Locking up as best I could, though the kitchen door didn't even seem to have a key, just a latch, I went out for a walk, along the ancient trackway at the foot of the downs, pulling me deep into the woods. The silence unnerved me - but the brief bursts of noise, as the wind shook the trees' leaves, or a sudden rise of a flock of birds, scattered by my presence, they caught me by surprise.

By late afternoon, Jack had still not returned. Was he just going to leave me in this house, all alone, to amuse myself? This was not my idea of a nice break. I went back upstairs and worked on my track some more, but I was itching for the internet - I wanted to check the Loophole, and maybe dig through some sound libraries, trying to identify some of the less distinct birdcalls on my recordings. By the time Jack finally returned from Marlborough, I was distinctly bored and cranky, sulking through dinner. I missed London, I missed people, and the noise - and most of all, the bloody internet.

By Tuesday morning, I'd had enough. I got a ride into town with Jack to check my email, then manufactured a crisis at work which needed my immediate attention, collected my things and got a lift to Swindon to make my way home. Rural living was clearly not for me, and I breathed a distinct sigh of relief as the train slid along the tracks underneath the Westway, and finally deposited me back in Paddington Station.

London was so disorienting after the county, the narrow streets, jam-packed with people, the buzz, the hum, the roar of the traffic. It was so much hotter than the country, during that endless, sweltering summer, the heat bouncing back off the buildings and the pavement. But losing myself in the crowds, the throb of humanity, thousands of people, of every colour, from every nation on earth, I felt energised and alive in a way that I'd felt like I was suffocating back in Wiltshire. It was like the forest in Sleeping Beauty, I decided, full of thorny briars to wrap round you while you slept and trap you and keep you, sleeping in the wild. I wanted London, dirty, ugly, shiny, exciting London - no, I *needed* London.

Our flat seemed wilted, the air stale, so I opened all the windows and went round tidying the rubble that Jack had left in his flurry of last-minute packing. Apart from anything else, the flat was all mine for the next six months. I couldn't even remember the last time I lived by myself - if I ever even had. I'd spent half my life trying to fit into the nooks and crannies of Jack's flat. Now, finally I could make my own stamp on the place - maybe clean out the second bedroom now that all his artwork was out of storage and up at the arts centre, and build a proper studio in there.

My song! My new song! I had the sudden urge to listen to it, so I dug my laptop out of my baggage and hooked it up to the speakers in the nest of my desk. Turning it up loud, since Jack wasn't there to complain, I blasted it aloud, pleased that it still sounded just as good as it had in the ancient overgrown cottage, in fact, perhaps it sounded even better, on decent speakers, bouncing off the concrete walls of our London flat. My first instinct was to post it to the Loophole, see what everyone made of it, so bursting with pride, I found the modem, connected it up and uploaded the MP3 to my MySpace.

Logging back onto The Loophole, my heart felt really warm, seeing Allen's familiar Loophole logo at the top of the page, the reassuring format of black on white text. How were there so many new threads? I'd only been away a weekend. Alone in the country, without an internet connection, I had hoped that maybe I could kick this internet habit, but after clicking on two threads, I was hooked again. God, I missed it so much.

UK TICKETS ON SALE NOW!!!! shouted the thread at the top of the page. Shit - how had they gone on sale while I was in the country? With the new online ticketing system, the first Earl's Court gig had sold out in twenty minutes, and the second one in ten. Manchester, Newcastle, Glasgow and Cardiff had all sold out - that left only Nottingham or Aberdeen. Damn. Maybe I could get a ride to Aberdeen with CryingMinotaur if I took the train up to Glasgow? Then again, I could start the whole round of posting plaintive begs for spare tickets on the W.A.S.T.E. board - or if all else failed, resort to a tout outside the tube station.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can't believe I missed the ticket sale. Did anyone get a spare ticket for the London shows?
> 
> **BearHunt** : sorry, I had a spare, but I've already sold it to someone on ateaseweb
> 
> **KidAdie** : hey, you're back! How was Wiltshire? We thought you'd be eaten by bears.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Fucking awful. I missed London. The smell of the Thames.
> 
> **KidAdie** : ugh, in this weather? u crazy, girl!
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i think one of my mates at school had an extra ticket? i'll ask tomorrow at lunch
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Thanks, Telexie, I appreciate it. What else have I missed?
> 
> **Worrywort** : They put a new set of MP3s up on Digital Landfill. MizzTing is up there now and so is CryingMinotaur
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh, I'm so pleased! congratulations, guys! Loophole producers gonna take over the world!
> 
> **KidAdie** : I got a new gig! I'm gonna be spinning in Brixton as DJ Atom next weekend. If I do well, it might lead to a regular thing. Please please please Eyesore can you send me a 320 of your track so I can play it out?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I've got a new track that's even better now, m8! Where are you playing? I might come down.
> 
> **KidAdie** : really? You'd come down to Brixton? that'd be SICK! I'm spinning early doors - after months of begging Khama he finally listened to my mixtape and said I could play. My first proper gig - it's a pretty big deal.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's your first gig? Congratulations, Adie! That's so exciting. Definitely coming down for that. Jack is gonna be out in Wiltshire for the next six months and I've got to find things to do to keep me from getting lonely and bored
> 
> **CokeBaby** : the US tour has been so cool! You missed some great show reports. I think there's still a couple of live recordings up on SoulSeek though. Oh, and StockholmSyndrome met the band in LA! It was so funny, he actually asked Thom and Jonny if they knew who SleepFuriously was
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That was very naughty!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : (Do they know, though?)
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : Jonny just said "he's a very bad man." And then he started laughing like a little girl. he has the weirdest laugh ever.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i still reckon it's stanley. the spelling is the giveaway
> 
> **Windowlicker** : it's Plank, it's totally Plank. he posted something about thom's guitar setup the other day, it's got to be Plank
> 
> **KidAdie** : it's not, it's someone from w.a.s.t.e playing with us
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : but he's on tour with them. he's only posting during american time now!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Alright, enough. Sleep Furiously is our little mystery now. Leave the poor bloke alone, he'll tell us if he wants.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh and if anyone sees any tickets going for Earl's Court, let me know. I don't care if they're floor or even rubbish seats, I just want to get in.
> 
> **KidAdie** : Eyesore, before you disappear, your new tune is SICK. can I remix it? i just wanna add a more bangin' kick drum and do some work on the bass, mix it a bit higher. can I have the stems?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : OMG, that'd be amazing, Adie!  Yes, what a brilliant idea. I'd love to hear what you do with it. PM me your email address and I'll send you over a link.

 

I logged onto the Private Messages inbox to wait for Adie's email, but SleepFuriously had already beaten him to it.

 

> **SleepFuriously** : look, don't worry about earl's court. i'll make sure you get a ticket and a pass and everything. it's all sorted
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Furious, are you sure? I mean, that's lovely of you to offer, but those tickets are not cheap
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you'll be on the guest list. it's fine. i kinda owe you for all the help you've given me with cubase. it's my pleasure
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Furious, look. I've told you the truth about who I am. Please be honest with me. Do you work for Radiohead?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : um, yeah
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Are you on tour with them right now?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yep. 
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Why are you on the forum? I'm not complaining, I'm just curious.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : everyone checks the forums during boring stretches on the bus to get an idea of what the shows were like for the punters, take the temperature of the fans, how the stage show worked and everything. I like the loophole coz it's the most music-oriented. it's not just fangirl shit about the band's hair - no offence - or even whether the performance and song selection was good, but people will talk whether the sound was good, whether the lighting worked, about whether the mix was good or bad, not enough bass or too much backwash from the stage monitors. it's really useful for the whole crew
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I wouldn't have thought you had the time!
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : come on, you've been on tour. people always think that touring is so exciting but it's long stretches of doing absolutely fuck all waiting for something to happen
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I guess, yeah. I had forgotten. You've brought up a lot of old memories for me, talking over old times, 2 Too Many and all that. I had forgotten how much I loved it, how much I loved music and performing. So I owe you for that, as well.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i'm glad. your tracks really are good. the new one is the best yet. there's a real sense of place in it. it doesn't sound like london, like your other tracks do. i can hear the forest in it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You are too sweet, Furious.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i mean it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh god, I'm blushing now. Look, are you going to come to the meet-up at Earl's Court? You really should say hello and put a stop to all the rumours
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i can't. i'll be working. besides, i think the rumours are funny
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Jonny's right, you are a very bad man.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ha hahahah Jonny's always right. don't tell him i said that.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : wait, so you *know* him? That's why you were asking for him that first night?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah, he's always on the internet, the phone at his house is engaged for hours at a stretch. it's sometimes easier to get him on a forum than on the phone. but i'm glad it was you that answered my question in the end.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Me too, I guess. God, I'm sorry I shouted at you and treated you like an abject fanboy. 
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's alright, it was funny actually. i liked the balls of it. well, i guess metaphorical balls in your case ha ha
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Are you not even curious to meet me? I mean, I'm curious as all hell about you. It's weird, that I talk to you all the time, but we've never met. 
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : of course i'm curious. but also a bit scared. it's kinda complicated?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I guess it *is* really strange. We might ruin things by meeting.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ruin what things?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, forget it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i could... well... hmmm.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no, it's a dumb idea
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : spit it out, Furious
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i could get you a pass for the aftershow. and i could say hello there - but the band will all be there and you said you didn't want to meet anyone. oh, forget it. bad idea.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Yeah, very bad idea.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : forget i offered. it was v v presumptuous of me
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But...
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : But what?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't know. I'm torn. I do want to meet you, but at the same time...
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's weird meeting people off the internet, isn't it?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it's not at all. It's fine. I'm going to meet Adie and go to his gig, and I'm really excited about it, but, you know, Adie is just a kid.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : and i'm not? i might be in my 30s but i don't feel like i'm anything but just a kid
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it's not that, it's... argh. Complicated.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : is it the radiohead thing? don't be intimidated by that. honestly. you wouldn't be so in awe if you saw everyone padding about the tourbus in underpants all the time
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But i kind of don't want to lose that sense of awe. And I don't want to lose that sense of... oh god this is embarrassing to explain.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : don't start getting weird on me
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Things are already weird. This whole thing is weird. Ha ha, Christ, Allen keeps teasing me, he keeps saying that you have some kind of internet crush on me, the way you always pop up on every thread I post on.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oops. so you noticed.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : is this a thing, then?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : uuuuhhhh... kinda?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : An internet crush kinda thing?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : like you said, it's kinda complicated
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What kind of complicated?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : the kind of complicated where i'm really scared you're gong to tell me, fuck off you creepy weirdo, i don't want to meet up with you ever, piss off, stop sending me dm's?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No. I wouldn't say that. Not to you.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : phew. ok. i feel so stupid about it. i don't wanna be *that guy*. ever. but it's complicated. crushes are complicated. attraction is complicated. one day you're a bloke, a really helpful and intelligent bloke who knows everything about synths ever. the next day you're a girl - and a beautiful girl, at that - and then a week later you turn out to be the girl off the telly that i had a massive crush on when i was at college. it's complicated!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's complicated for me, too. Because, for me, this is the kind of complicated where I'm worried that I might be encouraging you, because I kinda like it. The attention.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh? you do?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : And this is where I tell you that I'm worried that I might actually feel the same way. With the crushing.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : really.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Whatever way this is. Because, like, what even *is* this? Flirtation? Attention-seeking? A simple prop to occupy your time?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ha! no, no, don't get the wrong idea. this is what i don't want, you getting suspicious of me. this is hard, cause i'm not *like* this. i don't... like, it's really hard for me to feel attracted to someone. genuinely attracted to them. i don't go around just letching on women because, for me, i have to really trust someone, in order to want to... to be tempted to...
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : To what?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : fuck! what am i saying?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Look, I'm married.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : and i have a girlfriend. this isn't what it looks like.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But you are such a flirt.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : and you're a complete tease.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : This isn't real. This can't ever be real. But Allen is right. MizzTing is right. We do flirt on the forum. And I *like* flirting with you. I like *you*. And I don't want to lose that.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : do we have to lose that? by meeting?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : if we don't meet IRL, then everything just stays potential. Maybe we meet and it ruins everything. You find out that I'm old and not that cute, perky pink-haired 17 year old rave chick any more. I find out that you're a sweaty, greasy roadie with a beer belly and a balding ponytail.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : hahaha, i'm not. i promise. and i'm relieved you're not a 17 year old with pink hair any more. that hair was ridiculous. worse than blond hair extensions, which is really saying something
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But that's the other option? What if we meet, and we really hit it off?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but i hope we do hit it off
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But what if this has the danger of becoming real? What if an internet crush becomes an IRL, marriage-threatening crush? This is fun, and safe, and wonderful right now. Because it's just a game. It's just fun. What if we met, and it stopped being a fun game, and became something... *real*? But either of those options are terrifying to me. I don't know that I want to risk it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's like shroedinger's crush. meeting would be like opening the box. until we open the box, the crush is both alive and dead, both options are equally valid and possible.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : see, Furious, it's when you say things like that, I just...
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you think i'm bonkers, you think i should have a tin hat?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, I go weak in the knees at how clever and perceptive and creative you are.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : maybe we should get offline and pretend we never had this conversation.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : maybe.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but i still want you to come to earl's court. i still want you to have that. i want you to enjoy that, because i want you to be happy and i know how happy the music would make you
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : See, I want to meet you because you *understand* that. You are such a beautiful person, Furious. Don't let anyone else ever tell you otherwise.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy meets up with KidAdie off the forum, to go dancing at a club in Brixton, as Adie has remixed one of her tunes and plans to play it when he DJs.
> 
> Adie is mates with Kieran Hebden, whose band, Four Tet, is currently supporting Radiohead on tour, and they try to pump him for gossip about the band and their mysterious roadie that posts on the Loophole.
> 
> But by the end of the night, two of their mad friends who work in a record shop in Croydon are talking about starting a record label to release their collaboration.

The music flowed out of me. It was all I knew how to do, with this weird, stilted, impossible emotion. How could I have such a crush on someone I'd never met, who I'd never even seen a photograph of? It was impossible. He was just words on a page. But such kind words, and such clever words. I put on Hail To The Thief, but Thom's voice seemed to be singing straight to me, accusing me of whatever it was I was feeling for SleepFuriously: _just cause you feel it, doesn't mean it's real._ I switched the stereo off, and sat down at the computer and switched my sequencer on. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. It was just because Jack was so far away, and being so impossible lately. And SleepFuriously was just a kind voice in the dark, onto whom I'd chosen to project all my loneliness and frustration.

I slammed my fingers into the keyboard, the pre-loaded orchestral strings stabbing out my longing and pain. I played it again, and looped it, then slowly started to sketch in drums, bass, whooping synth arrangements underneath it, until all my emotions were laid out in a tangled heap. For days, I worked on it, shaping the chaos into something beautiful, then contrasting the beauty with waves of anger and frustration underneath.

After mixing everything down to MP3 and burning it to a CD to listen to on the Tube, I was nearly late meeting Adie in Brixton, skipping up the steps, blinking, into the late summer sun. As I waited outside the station, a strange man came up to me and started shouting in my face, trying to touch me. I recoiled, but he kept following me, shouting at me, calling me a black bitch and a whore. Christ, I hated the Tube and I hated Brixton Station in particular, as some kind of magnet for all the crazies in South London. I wanted to run away, to flee back to the train, when suddenly an angel stepped between us. "Back off, man, she doesn't want to talk to you, leave her alone. Come on, Lucy. Quick, take my hand, this way."

Too disoriented to protest, I let the angel lead me off down the street, away from the shouting man and towards the market. As we rounded the corner, I dared to look up into his face. He was a tall, lanky youth of about 20, with that sort of ranginess from a late growth spurt. And he was beautiful. There was no other word for him. Soft,  latte-coloured skin, wide, African lips, high cheekbones, lightly dusted with freckles (I'd never seen a black kid with freckles before - I mean, my sister was pretty light-skinned but she didn't have _freckles_ ) eyes somewhere between hazel and gold, and short, unkempt, very curly hair a sort of coppery colour that reminded me of a renaissance painting. "You know my name. You must be Kid Adie."

"One and the same. Recognised you from your photo. You alright? That nasty old man not giving you too much trouble?"

"I'm getting rather used to that kind of thing, on the forum," I sighed.

"Come on, that's not the same though," Adie protested. "You know we're just kidding around."

"Adie, that's what you blokes never seem to get. When you get so much hassle, all the time, just for being a girl - it stops making a difference, whether it's a nasty old man on the street, or a bunch of lads who think they're kidding around on the internet. It gets too hard to tell the difference."

That caught him up short, as he seemed to ponder it, turning it over in his mind. "You know, I never thought about it that way. I guess... no. If you don't like it, I'll knock it on the head. I was just trying to give you a compliment... but you're right. When we're online, and you can't see me smiling, how are you supposed to tell the difference between a compliment coming from me, or hassle from someone like Pablo or that nasty old man?"

I smiled. He was pretty wise for such a young kid. "Zactly."

"Listen. I'll make it up to you. Shall we go get dinner before the gig? I can play you the remix I did of your track." His wide eyes and his diffident grin were so infectious I found myself agreeing. "We can get roti in the market, at my auntie's stall. Proper Trini food."

An older woman with waist-length dreadlocks eyed him balefully as we settled at a table inside the market. "What are you doing over this way, Adie? Come to cause trouble like your brother?"

"No, I've got a gig," Adie insisted disdainfully. "I don't mess with that postcode shit my brother does. I'm just here to play music. Please can we have two pumpkin curry roti, Auntie?"

"Humph," rejoined the woman, and disappeared back into the shop. I stared at Adie, as if convinced he, too, would disappear any moment, until she returned with our food. I tried to pull out my wallet, but she waved it away. "Put that away. Your money is no good here."

"Here, listen to this," Adie insisted, pulling out a pair of huge, closed-backed DJ headphones and plonking them on either side of my head before pulling a smart MP3 player out of his bag. "Tell me what you think," he demanded, flicking the on button, then started to wolf down his supper.

I raised the delicious smelling parcel of fried bread and pumpkin to my mouth, but the world melted away before I could take a single bite. The music... shimmered. It was my track alright, I could hear the synth line and the bird-like chirping, the burble of the 303 like a babbling brook, but he'd ripped out the rather ordinary 4/4 drumbeat I'd never been quite happy with and replaced it with this nervous, skittering beat that seemed to skate back and forth between both ears, as the massive booms of an 808 kick drum dropped down between cymbal chatter like overripe fruit. And the new bass - it was huge and deep, thick with dubby echo, wobbling slightly off-beat, the sub-bass frequencies practically oozing out of the headphones. I listened all the way to the end of the track, feeling Brixton Market melt away, then peeled the headphones off, blinking and disoriented in the early evening sun.

"Oh god, your face. You hate it, don't you?" He paused in his eating, looking more than slightly worried.

"No! Oh my god, no. It's just... I've never heard anything even remotely like this before. It's... it's incredible."

"You should hear it on a Funktion-One sound system with full bass response - well, you will tonight. It's decent, yeah? Proper proud of that one." I wanted to laugh. He spoke exactly like he wrote on the forum, half precise technical language and half South London patois, grinning his beautiful smile down at me. Those unbelievable freckles! They just seemed unreal.

"Wow, I can't imagine. No, really, Adie, I'm pleased with what you've done with it. Just surprised." Remembering that we were about to go clubbing, I stuffed the roti into my mouth to try and line my stomach. It was actually delicious, spicy and fresh, though the taste combination was unfamiliar, half Indian and half Caribbean. Sitting outside the shop, I could hear a weird soundclash between the lazy dub echoing out of the roti stall's kitchen and chattering techno bleeding out of a record shop a few doors down - it wasn't entirely unlike Adie's music, come to think of it. Tonight was definitely going to be an unfamiliar experience, it had been years since I had been clubbing, and I had no idea what to expect. But then again, wasn't that what I should be doing with my new-found freedom, pushing myself out of my comfort zones, and experiencing new things without Jack to drag me down and insist I go home once I was starting to enjoy myself?

"So if you really like it, why you keep staring at me like I knifed your grandmother?" He smiled slyly as he said it, but a teenager's insecurity didn't lurk that far underneath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was staring. It's just... you're not how I expected."

"What, you never seen a black kid with red hair and freckles before?" he teased, then laughed at the embarrassment on my face. I knew that defensive laugh, I had done it myself a thousand times, trying to explain away the mixture of different continents' features in my own face.

"To be honest, no."

"Yeah, well, I ain't heard many black girls talk as posh as you do, either. You sound like the fucking Queen." He smiled to show he was joking, and I found myself smiling back instead of bristling. It was the freckles, they made him look like a mischievous little boy.

"I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours," I suggested tentatively, as a kind of peace offering.

"My dad's second generation West Indian immigrant, Brixton born and bred, but my mum's from County Sligo, Ireland. I got my dad's looks and my mum's hair. Me and my brothers and sisters, we're like a box of Crayolas. All colours." He grinned proudly. "What about you? Who do you come from?"

I normally recoiled at that kind of question, but it was the first time I'd ever been asked it in solidarity, rather than some kind of invasive curiosity. Also, it was weird that he said _Who_ do you come from, not Where. The Where was obvious - we were both from South London. Who do you come from, who are your people... that was the kind of question a friend asked. "My Dad's Scottish. He's a teacher, that's why I speak so well. My Mum was originally from Zimbabwe. Or, rather, Rhodesia, as it was when she left. She was a political refugee of some kind during the Civil War - what they'd probably call an 'asylum seeker' these days. She doesn't like to talk about it much - raised me and my sister to be ' _more British than the British_.' Oh, how my Mum loves Britain. But I don't live in _Britain_. I have to live in England. And I don't know that _England_ loves two little brown girls who no one can ever be quite sure if they're black or white."

"Oh, my god, do I know that feeling." Adie rolled his hazel-gold eyes. "In school they called me Heinz, 52 Varieties. Like I was a dog. Choc Ice, the nasty kids call you - black on the outside, white on the inside. I might almost prefer that, coz the nicer ones, they try to dress it up, they're more subtle, the way they try to get at who they think you are, but it's just as vicious. All that bullshit about the Cricket Test..."

"What Cricket Test?" I asked nervously. I had heard Choc Ice before, from another girl at school, when I was a bit too good at Maths for her liking, but this kind of Cricket Test sounded downright ominous.

"Maybe girls don't get that, I dunno? But you know. Are you really _British_ enough for them? Ever? They call it British, but they mean England, don't they. If Zimbabwe played England at a cricket match, who would you support? Or if Trinidad played England, that's what they ask me."

"I... don't know. We never followed sport. My dad was more into studying insects as a hobby. He's a science teacher. I grew up liking geeky science stuff."

"Ain't about sports at all. It's a culture test. A race test. It's about trying to figure out where your loyalties _really_ lie. Are you English or are you something else? Something they don't like."

"But what kind of a question... what are you supposed to say, anyway? It's like asking, who do you like better, your mother or your father? What kind of a person asks such a question, anyway? What do you tell them?"

Adie grinned widely. "A-B-E. My mum is from Ireland, after all."

"Who are they?" I felt utterly perplexed.

"Come on - Anyone But England. British can mean all kinds of things. Scottish. Welsh. Asian. West Indian. English means only one thing, far as they're concerned. Something I ain't, and never gonna be." His smile crinkled mischievously and he laughed, a deep, infectious laugh, and I felt myself warming towards him. If I'd had a little brother, he'd probably have looked a lot like Adie. But I'd never had a brother - and my sister had been so girly that I'd grown up as my father's ersatz son. How odd, to have spent my entire life, feeling like my sister and I were a distinct race with only two members, and yet here was another of our tribe. "Are you done with your roti? We need to get a leg on. I gotta be in the club before the doors open if I'm first on!"

We walked over as the sun set, and I was surprised to see a queue gathering outside the venue. I had a sudden fear that I was getting old when I found myself looking at the girls, in their skin-baring clothes, kissing my teeth and thinking 'won't they catch their death of cold?' Adie just walked up to the bouncer and pointed out his name on the list. For a moment, the bouncer looked suspiciously at us, but Adie stood his ground and insisted I was his plus one, and we were inside. Low lights. The cool, dank air of a Brixton basement. Rows of bottles over the bar. It had been far, far too long since I was in a music venue like this. As I gawped around, taking in the black lights and the posters for upcoming club nights, Adie let out a whoop of joy and walked up to the DJ booth up by the far end of the room. He and a gaggle of young men started embracing and greeting one another with lots of fist-bumping and back-slapping and a half-joking shout of "DJ Atom in the house, smashin' you into molecules!" For a moment, I feared I would be left behind to fend for myself, but he called me over, and started proudly introducing me to all his mates.

I felt a million years older than everyone else in the room, but I was determined to have a good time, even if it meant acting like den mother for a gang of barely-out-of-their-teens boys. But then again, maybe I liked it, that sense of having little brothers. In the back of my head, I could hear Jack sneering at their oversized clothes and brutal haircuts, calling them "chavs" or whatever, but I liked Adie, I felt comfortable with him, though it was funny to hear the way he switched between talking to me in the clipped, technical language of a musician, then back to South London patter for the horseplay with his mates. He didn't just live awkwardly in the boundary between two worlds like I did, he seemed to thrive on the tension, slipping between roles effortlessly as he talked to his friends. There were a gang of them whose names I barely caught - Ollie, James, Steve, though with their birth names and their DJ names, I couldn't really keep track of them all. Ollie produced a bottle of rum, neat, and offered it round, but Adie shook his head. "Nah way, mate. Deadens your ear, cuts off the top frequencies of your hearing. I'll have a spliff a bit later on, but I want to be sharp for DJing."

"I've got some pills, too, for later, if you fancy..." Then suddenly Ollie's eyes glanced shiftily at me, and he shut up as if caught smoking by the teacher. Christ, they made me feel ancient. I sat down in the old leather sofa behind the DJ booth and pretended to shake a cane at them.

"Young man, I was dropping E's when you were in nappies," I laughed, crossing my arms like a schoolmarm before he shrugged and passed the bottle of rum to me.

The chatter grew louder, and I looked up to realise that the doors had opened and the room was starting to fill up. James - or perhaps it was Ollie, as they looked alike, dressed alike, and had almost exactly identical teenage pouts under matching baseball caps, apart from the fact that one appeared to be black and the other white - had taken over the decks and was playing more of that nervous, skittering music that Adie loved. 

"Horsepower Productions," Ollie offered when I tried to surreptitiously look over the decks to identify the track they were playing. "Deep shit, proper Yardcore."

"Not as sick as this Zed Bias remix of El-B," James disagreed, pulling out another slab of vinyl. "Drop this one next. The bass will mess wit your fuckin' mind."

"Do you know any of this music?" Adie asked, digging through his own records. "Are you bored senseless?" he teased, making me feel even older than I already did.

"No," I confessed. "But it's an adventure, right? I mean, the last time I was in a club, there was Acid House and there was Rave, and that was it. I'm fascinated. I don't think I've heard new club music that spun my head around and made me actually hear music in a different way - like this is doing - since, I dunno, since the first time I danced to proper Jungle in a railway arch near London Bridge. Oh god, don't look at me like that, you make me feel a million years old, you probably don't even remember Jungle."

James shook his head. "Nah, I'm just impressed a posh bird like you ever danced to Jungle. Old school music."

"Nah, she knows her shit, she's a producer, too," Adie announced, almost proudly.

"Nah, mate, Jungle's not Old Skool, that's shit like On A Ragga Tip," the other baseball cap twin informed me, deciding to give me a potted history of dance music over the past fifteen years in nervous, speedy patter. "Jungle grew out of Techno and Rave, but then the Hardcore end split off into Breakbeat, and Drum N Bass, then Drum N Bass splintered, and there was Garage, and there was 2-Step, but right now, the big thing is Grime, which mixes home-grown UK hip-hop wit' post-Reggae and Dancehall Riddims, but lately, 2-Step has started mutating and picking up bits of Dubstyle, and the deep electronic end of Dub and the slower remixes of 2-Step have started, like, swapping DNA, and they had a baby, and that baby is Dubstep, and Dubstep is what we do down here."

"You are so full of shit, Ollie," interrupted Steve, passing the bottle of rum round again. Steve seemed slightly older than the other two - or at least more worldly. "Garage didn't grow out of Drum N Bass, it grew out of House, that's the fuckin' joke, mate. Don't listen to him, Lucy, he doesn't know what he's talking about. I don't believe Khama lets him DJ here when he don't know jack - he don't even know Jack from Acid House!"

"Guys... who is this Khama you keep talking about?" I finally scraped up the courage to ask.

"Khama is, like... wizard sage deep mystic of bass vibrations."

"Khama is, like a bastard pipedream son of an East Indian guru and a West Indian voodoo queen..."

"Khama has this theory that, well, subatomic vibrations on the scale of really deep bass notes actually physically change the structure of the brain, and induce some kind of alpha-beta brainwave trance state while you are dancing to his music."

"Khama is some kind of Rastafari hippie..."

"Nah, man, Khama studied with Hari Krishnas in India, he's made his music an avatar of Shiva Dancing, creation and destruction held in opposite hands..."

"Khama is... man, what have you done with the spliff?"

"No, mate, you had it last." And the pair of them descended into squabbling, without realising that I had quietly stepped between them and relieved them of their drugs.

"These two kill me," Adie laughed. "They work at a record shop in Croydon, and they just do this all day long. They'll keep it up for hours, arguing like this, bantering back and forth."

"It's a musical education, mate," Steve flipped back, tapping the side of his head. "You'd have to go to college to pick up knowledge like this."

"So you just stand around talking about music, and you don't actually dance?" I teased. "Typical teenage boys." 

"I'm no teenager," Steve snorted. "I've been to Uni."

"Uni? You? What did you study?" I scoffed.

"Artificial intelligence. It's the future, you know, trans-humanism. Proper robotics stuff."

I did my best not to laugh. For all his cool, urban affectations, he seemed like a supreme geek, and really a bit of a trainspotter. Casting an eye out across the dance floor, I noticed that it was quickly filling up, though that row of young girls, still looking scandalously underdressed to me, had taken up residence in front of the DJ booth, and were making eyes at the huddle of boys clustered around the decks. "You guys could go down and ask those girls to dance, and get a snog and have the time of your lives, but instead you're up here, arguing over whether Garage grew out of House or Drum N Bass."

 A ruffle of protest went through the lads, but just as they were about to reassert their masculinity, another, slightly older man appeared at the door and started working his way towards the booth. "Oh my god, Ade, he's here."

"Of course he's here, I told you he would come," Adie announced proudly, peeling himself off the sofa and walking down the steps to shake hands with the tall, skinny, slightly gawky newcomer. The newcomer didn't look like a rock star; he had the bedroom pallor and bad posture of a producer that spent way too much time hunched over a laptop. "Guys, this is Kieran. These are my mates, Ollie, Steve, James, and this is Lucy, who I was telling you about." I smiled politely and shook hands, while Adie lowered his voice and practically quivered with hero worship. "Kieran has just been on tour with Radiohead," he whispered in an awestruck voice.

"How was it, mate?" Ollie enquired seriously, pushing his baseball cap back on his head and rubbing a nervous hand over his hair almost as if he were tugging his forelock.

"It's been good, a lot of fun," Kieran shrugged shyly, as if slightly embarrassed by his good fortune. "I'm not sure how I'm going down with the RAWK crowd, but some of the kids seemed to get into it. Is Khama about? I should say hello."

As he went over to greet the dreadlocked hippie who ran the club, and dumped his heavy canvas bag off in the corner behind the DJ booth, I pulled Adie aside. "How the hell do you know Four Tet? What kind of secret is that to hold out?"

Adie grinned, his eyes twinkling. "He went to school with my cousins. They were in bands together and stuff. Known him since I was a kid. He's been a big encouragement towards me making music."

"So I hear you've got a new remix for us tonight? Really excited to hear it," Kieran ventured as he returned, ruffling Adie's hair affectionately, as if he were a little brother.

"Yeah, it's an exclusive. One of Lucy's."

"Hardly mine any more. He's done so much to it, made it sound absolutely incredible."

Adie blossomed under the praise, straightening his back as Kieran sunk into the sofa next to me. "So come on, Kier, spill the gossip on Radiohead. Lucy's a big fan. What's Thom Yorke really like?" Another twinkle of his eyes, and a wink at me. "And what's their road crew like?"

"Their road crew?" Kieran blinked, surprised, and started to roll a fat spliff. "They're alright, I guess. Just really good people all round. Thom's an interesting fellow. Very intelligent, very perceptive. He's a smart guy."

"Lucy's got the biggest, fattest, juiciest crush on him in the world," Adie giggled, his tongue loosened by the incredibly strong weed he'd been hitting almost continually.

"Adie!" I protested, but Kieran merely laughed.

"I don't blame you. By the end of the tour, I think everyone ends up with half a crush on Thom. He's just like that. Such an irrepressible individual. A true original." Kieran's long, solemn face broke into a hesitant smile, as if the spliff was drawing him out of his shell into a kind of gentle stoner sociability.

I relaxed into the sofa and took another draw from the spliff. This was good stuff, completely unlike the manky weed that Luke occasionally produced. When I closed my eyes, I could feel the juddering, slippy basslines reaching right down to the bottom of my soul and pulling me back up out of myself. When I opened my eyes, I smiled and turned to the man by my side. "Do you dance, Kieran? Because none of these boys seem to."

"I dance," Adie protested. "I just have to DJ at the end of this record. Go on, then. Get on the floor. At least someone will dance during my set."

"Would you like to dance? I'd be happy to dance with you." Kieran's deep brown eyes warmed up his face when he smiled.

"Do you want a pill?" Ollie offered, pressing something small and unidentified into my hand. Without thinking, I raised it to my lips and swallowed it with a gulp of rum. This was madness, but who cared? The beat was insistent and I wanted to dance, to just lose myself in the pumping rhythm and sink down into the waves of bass.

"Kieran," shouted Adie, as the two of us made our way down to the floor, and Kieran turned around. "Cricket Test, Kier! India play South Africa - who do you choose?" Kieran rolled his eyes and flipped two fingers back towards the DJ booth, causing a stream of laughter from Adie. But Kieran just smiled and took it in his stride as we shuffled towards the mass of moving bodies swaying by the edge of the dance floor. His shy grin gave way to a manic gurning as he moved his body to the rhythm, in a kind of awkward groove that was actually quite endearing.

I danced, slowly at first, then with less and less inhibition, until finally I was springing about like a madwoman, the moves quickly coming back to me. Kieran clapped his hands and leapt up and down, grinning at me as we circled one another. Why had it been so long since I'd done this? Marriage, Jack, Bloomsbury, it all seemed to melt away under the overwhelming waves of bass. I lost Kieran after a few songs, drifting back to the inexorable pull of the DJ booth. I lost Ollie, I lost everyone I knew, but at least I could still see Adie's crop of gingery curls floating up above the DJ booth as he leaned over the decks, headphones propped over one ear as he lined up the next track, then loosed another barrage of weltering bass on the crowd. He was actually a really good DJ, not just playing track after random track like James had been, but building the tension and the momentum, slowly inching the BPM and the energy up, as more and more people found their way onto the dance floor. It was getting so crowded and I so hot, sticky with sweat, that I found myself envying the girls in their skimpy outfits, fanning themselves with flyers to stay cool.

Adie had a real gift - he mixed styles up a bit, without ever losing the thread. One minute he'd spin an old Garage anthem that had all the girls jumping up and shaking their hands at the sky, shouting for a rewind. Then the next minute, he played some deep electronic dub cut I'd never heard before, the bass pushing me backwards away from the speakers, followed shortly after by a snippet of a pop song - some weird acidic remix of a Sugababes track. And then, just at the right moment, when the crowd were ready and receptive, he looked up, caught my eye and grinned, and he dropped our track.

Oh Christ - he was right about the sound system. The bass which had made me simply melt, back in the cafe, felt like a physical wall of sensation, almost shaking me out of consciousness, as I realised I was coming up on the E, and the whole club seemed to fizzle off into the sky like the sparkling noises of the melody. It was perfect - I couldn't believe this was my music! I looked round desperately, wanting to shout to all my new friends, hey, listen to this amazing thing that Adie and I did! But the lads were nowhere near me - I could see that Kieran was back up at the DJ booth, whispering in Adie's ear and nodding his head in time with the shuddering kick drum. Then the bass boomed again, and I felt like my whole body exploded with happiness, spinning back into the dance.

I danced all night. It would hurt in the morning, but I didn't care, I just loved the music and the beat and the crowd and the whole thing. I danced all the way through Adie's set, and threw myself around to Khama, and then even after the closed closed, we danced down the street to an after hours club, and danced in an overcrowded back room to booming dub. And when that closed, we danced ourselves onto the night bus, and as the sun came up, I found myself on the floor of a record shop in Croydon, trying to dance between the counter and the shop window as we smoked spliffs, played records and drank cheap rum out of cracked plastic cups. I was in love with the music. Steve and Ollie kept dragging records out and popping them on the turntable for a few minutes, before Adie would pull the jack out and stick it into his MP3 to play another remix. Everyone was talking very fast, and very excitedly, mostly about our new song. I closed my eyes, swaying my hips back and forth to the music as the boys talked, all at once.

"Ade, this is really something. If no one else will put this out, we've got to. I've always wanted to start a record label, and it would be so easy to do it, from the shop."  
"What, you'd put out our track? What, you and Ollie?"  
"I'm not starting a label with you, Steve, you're full of shit! What did Kieran think of the track?"  
"He loved it, mate, he loved it."  
"Do you think he'll do us a remix? If we could get him, and maybe get Khama to do a remix, we'd be minted. We could sell it out the shop..."  
"Khama would never do a remix of our track, you're smoking crack!"  
"He might, you never know. He was really nice about my set tonight, we could ask him. But even if it were just Kieran, that'd be good for a pressing of a couple hundred pieces of vinyl, get it on iTunes, add digital distribution, it can't be that hard..."  
"Ade, mate, that song is too good to let Steve fuck it up. You gotta try to get it on a proper label, get decent distribution..."  
"Fuck that, Ollie, we could be a proper label if we got our hands on a track like that. We'd be made."  
"What we gonna call it, then?"  
"What?"  
"The label."  
"I dunno. Something futuristic, about, like, cyberspace and the internet, but also referencing our past - Croydon, UK Garage, Two-step."  
"Cyberdub."  
"Too much like fuckin' Cyberdog, don't want people getting us mixed up with weekending Camden trust fund crusties."  
"Interstep."  
"Fuckin' perfect. DJ Atom featuring Axiomatics, new track coming soon on Interstep Records. What you think, Adie?"  
"I dunno. Look I trust you guys, you're my mates, I trust you a lot more than I'd trust some big London label I didn't know. But Lucy, what do you think? Lucy? Lucy!"  
"I think I fucking love this bassline, and I want to marry this bassline."  
"Ha ha, watch her go. Fuckin' 'ell, Adie, while you was fucking about on computers all day like a proper geek. How did you ever meet a bird like that?"   
"Stop being stupid, think big. We gotta make a video and have Lucy dancing like that in it, we'd sell a billion copies."  
"Fuck yeah, have her dress up in a short skirt - in fact, fuck that. Stick her in a nice bikini, film her out on the beach..."  
"Where the fuck are we gonna get a beach in Croydon?"  
"I dunno. We could drive down to Brighton. Or do it in a club. But have her, dancing around like that - fuck, we could sell a truck load of the video right there."  
"No! No way."  
"What do you mean no?"  
"I'm not doing that. In fact, I've got one condition if I'm doing it at all."  
"Aw, come on, Lucy, it'd be amazing, think of how people would react! Here's this booming bass track, but it's this hot chick that's made it."

"No!" I opened my eyes and the room stopped spinning somewhat, but now it was my head that was spinning, Still, of this one thing I was sure. "I don't want my name, or my face on it."

"But Luce," Adie protested. "Remember what you were saying, back on the forum, about how it's really important for young girls - girls like Princess Telex - to have role models, to see other girls doing stuff like producing records?"

I shook my head resolutely. "So you think it's gonna be good for them to see me dancing around in a fucking bikini? No fucking way. I'm Axiomatics or I'm nothing"

Adie sighed deeply and I could see him look back and forth between me and his mates, but then he nodded resolutely and I could see he was gonna get my back. "No, Lucy's right. That's not what this track is about, it's not fuckin' bootie bass. You should just put it out all mysterious, like those old house white labels, where all you get is name and title. Atom and Axiomatics. Or Axiomatics and Atom? I dunno, which sounds better."

"Axiom N Atom, that sounds fuckin' sick. Well sci-fi. Like Oxide & Neutrino. Proper old school."

"Oxide & Neutrino weren't Old School, Ollie, they were fuckin' Garage, you utter tosser!"

"I didn't mean Old School like the genre that time, I meant, like classic, you fuckin' muppet."

As Ollie and Steve fell to arguing, Adie and I stared at one another, like two shell-shocked animals caught in a crossfire. "Are we really gonna do this?"

"Are you fucking kidding? Please, Lucy. I've been dreaming of this my whole fucking life."

I thought to myself, I'm 28 years old. About to turn 29. I am way too old to be starting this pop star career again for the second time. But seeing the expression of hunger on Adie's face, and the excitement in Ollie and Steve's eyes, I shut my mouth, nodded, and left Croydon just as the trains started up again, with a handshake record deal for our first single.

Ignoring the blinking ansaphone and the missed calls on my mobile from Jack, I went straight home and collapsed into bed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Adie and Lucy's track comes out on the newly formed Interstep records, it turns out to be an unexpected underground hit on pirate radio.
> 
> But Lucy's new life as a DJ and producer does not sit well with her husband and his arts scene friends.
> 
> Can Lucy and Jack save their marriage, or is she becoming too dangerously obsessed with a Radiohead roadie known as SleepFuriously?

In the end, I didn't tell Jack. When he finally rang, he was so full of tiny complaints about the gallery, about his show, about the incompetent management of the art centre, about the impossible neighbours, the early morning dawn chorus of birds and lowing cattle that woke him up, etc. etc. etc. that I never got the words in. Fine, it would be my secret, mine and Adie's. And the Loophole's.

"Guys, this is a solemn secret," I insisted on the private members-only part of the forum, then went through the back end of the database and carefully scrubbed and googleproofed every mention that Axiomatics might be in any way connected to a poster named LonelyIsAnEyesore, or a girl named Lucy.

SleepFuriously was delighted, for both me and Adie. No, I didn't really want to think about what it meant, that I'd told Furious when I hadn't told my own husband. But with Adie's permission, I'd sent over an MP3 of the final mix, with my melody and Adie's insane bass fighting it out. And he loved it - he was as supportive and enthusiastic as I could possibly have wanted. No pressure, no slight edge of passive aggressive nastiness tearing me down, just his effusive excitement and unwavering belief that whatever happened, it would be great.

We spoke almost every day - I had given him my private email, to spare Allen's servers, and my AIM handle, so we could chat, late at night for me, but in the dead part of the evening for him, between setup and soundcheck. I found myself saving all my little bits of news for him, the silly titbits I should really have been saving for Jack, but Jack just wasn't interested. Furious, however, delighted when I told him that we'd had the test pressings back, and they sounded amazing, or that the white labels had gone off to select DJs around the country.

I could hardly believe that any of it was happening. Not even when the remixes came back - Khama's deep, booming, almost soulful, and Kieran's, bright and sparkling and ecstatic, like it had been dipped in glitter. It was odd how Khama and Kieran seemed to switch personalities in their music. Khama, the laughing, dreadlocked hippie trickster, his remix was as solemn and stately and almost mystical as something that would be played in a church. But Kieran, quiet, serious Kieran who danced like a village vicar at a disco - his music burbled and swirled like a playful babbling brook glinting in the sunlight.

And I really didn't believe it when the record started selling, at first just from the little shop in Croydon, but then quickly, spreading like wildfire, orders started coming in from speciality dance label shops all about the country. And then, when the newly formed Interstep Records managed to get it on iTunes, it started selling by the bucketload.

We had somehow accidentally hit on a winner. The anonymity intrigued people. In a world completely exposed and dissected by Big Brother and Pop Idol and endless PR campaigns, the idea of a self contained record by people who didn't want to be known somehow captured people's imaginations. And that crazy, tense, wobbling dance music that Adie and Steve and Ollie were all mad for, it somehow caught a mood during the politically tense autumn as it settled in that the war in Iraq was not ending, and the political scandals grew deeper.

The first inkling that it was going to be big was when I was in a little hipster boutique on Brick Lane, trying to buy a new outfit to go dancing in. Adie was DJ-ing regularly now, both at little Interstep nights, and proper, big clubs, and I often went along to provide moral support - or just neck the rider and dance like a loon. The kind of clothes that would do for trendy art openings in Whitechapel would just not do for sweaty clubs in Brixton or Shoreditch. If I'd once looked askance at the revealing outfits the girls wore, I now understood how hot one got, dancing for six hours straight. As I tried to squeeze myself into a tube-like dress, I heard a familiar bassline oozing out of the loudspeakers. I stuck my head out of the dressing room and looked about, as if I were expecting Adie to pop out of nowhere and shout "april fool!" But there was nothing but a bored-looking shop assistant reading i-D at the register.

"Are you playing this?" I asked disbelievingly.

"What?" asked the girl, barely glancing up.

"The music."

"It's just the radio," she shrugged, and went back to the magazine.

"What station?" I demanded, as those odd birdcall whoops that I'd recorded in that cottage in Wiltshire echoed through the square box of the boutique.

"I dunno. Rinse FM?"

"Oh my god." Reaching in my bag, I pulled out my phone and dialled Adie's number. "Adie, turn on Rinse FM, now."

"What? Why? I only just woke up, what the fuck..."

"Just shut up and do it!" I practically howled down the phone.

"Oh. My. God." I don't know if it was him that started squealing or me, but suddenly we were both squealing down the phone and I was jumping up and down in my ridiculously scanty dress.

"Is everything alright in there?" the shop girl called.

"Fine! yes! I'll take it!"

I wasn't just leading a double life any more. I was leading a triple life. Or maybe a quadruple life. There was the anonymous pop star whose weird, wobbly anthem was tearing up dance floors all over London. There was the ashen-faced zombie who hauled herself into work in Canary Wharf three days a week, feeling her database and her career slipping further away from her with every night of missed sleep. There was the distracted wife who somehow made an apologetic phone call every Thursday night explaining why she couldn't come out to Wiltshire that weekend, omitting the bit about how she and a beautiful young man nearly a decade younger than herself had been booked to DJ at some nightclub in Hoxton. And there was the amateur producer who still somehow found the time to give advice about compression and filter envelopes, and occasionally gossip about Radiohead on the internet.

And the only person who knew who all of those people were, and how they fitted together, was some greasy roadie on tour with Radiohead, a thousand miles away, in California, or Texas, or wherever Furious was that week - and I didn't even know his real name, or what he looked like, or how on earth to explain why it was that I needed to talk to him every day, just to keep a handle on who the hell I was.

Something had to break. I couldn't keep juggling lives like this much longer. Adie and I were already working on a follow-up single, based on that first, haunting tune that I'd posted to the Loophole, but I was almost too frightened to touch my DAW any more. My work was slipping. I had already made one crucial error, dumping a whole table of my database without realising it was still in use - though fortunately I was able to recover most of it from backup and shrugged it off as a computer glitch. But my marriage, that wasn't something I could put off any longer.

And so the one weekend that Adie was away, DJing off in Bristol, I packed up a few changes of clothes - proper, dignified country clothes, not my skimpy clubbing outfits - and dragged myself onto the train for Swindon. Had it really been a month since I'd last seen Jack? How could so much change in so little time? It was definitely autumn now, the leaves changing colour in the chilly October winds. But Jack was still the same husband I'd left on the train platform, though his hair was a big shaggier and his skin a bit more tanned. The country seemed to suit him; he'd lost weight and picked up a kind of bounding energy. But me? I just felt shattered and wanted to sleep, my constitution worn down from the late nights and my brain juddering from ecstasy comedown.

"You look well," he told me, though it was obviously a lie, and swept me up in his embrace. Oh, right. Sex. Well, there was that, I thought, feeling my body responding to the physical presence of his with a yearning that surprised me.

"So do you," I told him, reaching up and ruffling his hair affectionately.

"I know, it's too long. Haven't found a decent barber in this town."

"No, I like it." I was filled, suddenly, with overwhelming love for my husband. He wasn't so bad after all. Maybe absence did make the heart grow fond.

"Right, so I thought we'd drop in at the arts centre on the way back, so I could show you what I've done..."

I smiled up at him naughtily from under my hair. "Come on, Jack. Sod it, let's just go back to the house and screw like bunnies."

Conflicting emotions flickered across his face for a few moments. I'd actually shocked and surprised him, me, his little wife he thought he knew so well. But there was that edge of pride and ego - he did actually want to drop by the gallery and strut around like cock of the walk more than he wanted to have actual, real, dirty sex. That surprised me. But finally he shrugged and put the car in gear. "Oh, sod it. You're right. It's been far too long, come on, let's go."

 

\-----

 

I woke the next morning, thinking "this could actually still work." We had a long, luxurious breakfast in bed, followed by another session of love-making, then a long, luxurious bath, and then we lazed about in the garden in the late Autumn sun, reading the Saturday Guardian. Jack might not be perfect, but he was familiar. We fit together, even the way he swung his long legs into my lap for a toe-rub as he read the Money section and I read the Guide and then we squabbled dispassionately over the Review. I didn't tell Jack, but there was a big preview in the Guide, talking about Khama and his club in Brixton, and another new club called FWD and the exciting new bass music coming out of South London. How on earth had they got wind of it already? The internet seemed to be vastly compacting the length of time between the invention of a new scene or a new sound, and that crossover moment that even the mainstream press got hold of it. I found myself suddenly longing for a conversation with SleepFuriously or TalkShowHost - or even Steve from Interstep, about how the internet was changing culture, and accelerating that change. In another lifetime, it might have been the sort of conversation I'd have shared with Jack, but he didn't seem that interested, sniggering over obscure literary side-snipes in the letters page of the Review.

Our peace lasted exactly as long as the sun did. Clouds gathered across the china blue Wiltshire sky as he informed me that he'd actually made plans to go into the Gallery for a meeting that afternoon, followed by a working dinner I would be expected to attend, with various staff of the Arts Centre, and members of the Arts Council.

"Oh come off it," I sighed, half joking. "You can't expect me to have to deal with Mary Worthington even out on holiday in Wiltshire."

Jack's face darkened, and rain started to splatter across the canvas of our deckchairs, sending us scrambling for the safety of the kitchen. "Mary Worthington has been incredibly good to me, and has taken a genuine personal interest in my career. The least you could do is appear, and try to be polite to her, through a casual supper."

"Wait, she's here?" I stuttered awkwardly. "I was trying to make a joke."

"It's not a joking matter," Jack muttered. "She has a country house in Devizes. Didn't you know?"

Actually, that was news to me. And explained Jack's sudden new passion for Wiltshire. No, stop it, don't be uncharitable. Try to be supportive. Show the same care in your marriage that you would wish to receive. That was what SleepFuriously had told me. And suddenly, just at the thought of him, I ached for him. It was like a physical withdrawal, my fingers twitching for the internet, almost as bad as when I'd given up smoking. No, come on, this was ridiculous. You can survive four days without the internet, without the Loophole, without Radiohead... but without Furious? I wasn't sure I could do it.

But still, I sifted through my sensible country clothes, found a dress that was, I hoped, appropriate, and dressed for dinner. No, fuck it. In this backwater English town, people were going to stare at me no matter what I wore. So I was dressing to please myself and I wanted to wear a dress that showed off my curves. It was one thing that clubbing had taught me, a pride in my body, pride in the way it moved, pride in the way it looked, and pride in the way that it inspired admiring glances from both men and women. The old Jack, the man I'd once married, he'd have been proud to go out with me dressed like this. But this Jack, slightly frumpy middle aged Jack in his slurry coloured tweed jacket, his trousers tucked into wellington boots for the walk down the lane back towards the car, he frowned at my dress and my inappropriate shoes, though he said nothing. And then I saw the mud. Right, OK, fine. I would swap the shoes for wellies, at least until we got to Marlborough.

Oh my god, was I overdressed for the restaurant, especially when we arrived early, and Mary Worthington texted to say she was delayed behind a tractor on a B-road coming up to the A4, and we had to go and wait in a pub down the road. It was nice architecture, at least, an old coaching inn with lovely antique warped wooden roof beams and uneven floors that reminded me of Adie's crazy wobbling basslines, though it had clearly seen better days. I was tempted to take a photo and text it to him now that I had half a bar's worth of reception on my mobile, but resisted the urge. The locals, however, clearly did not entirely approve of me and my outlandish outfit. The women tutted, the men just stared, and I felt suddenly very exposed. Well, at least it was my damn dress they were staring at this time, and not the colour of my skin.

Finally, Mary Worthington arrived, fragrant in a floral dress and matching cardigan, both below the knee, but Jack hadn't finished his pint, and the girls from the arts centre (and they were all girls, very serious, intellectual looking girls in chunky wooden jewellery and earthen coloured knitware) were still working on their glasses of white wine, so we stayed. Mary Worthington, however, found lots to disapprove of. The radio was tuned to a dance station, maybe even a pirate, which was gearing up for Saturday night by playing the usual mix of big American R&B and homegrown urban pop, mixed in with the occasional floorfilling anthem, inspiring a steady stream of complaint from her, and then Jack, as he got the idea and joined in her chorus of disapproval.

"It's just so terrible, the radio today, isn't it?" Mary Worthington ventured. "And to think, our license money pays for this."

"It's appalling, I know," Jack agreed, though I'd heard him singing along to this Beyonce track in the shower.

"No imagination at all, no sense of experimentation. Just this endless, mindless cookie cutter repetitive beat. It's so anaethsetising, so anodyne," Mary Worthinton insisted, nodding her head curtly.

"It's all just about money," one of the wooden bead girls agreed. "Lowest common denominator, to appeal to the masses."

"Come on, now, mustn't be Classist," chunky knitwear countered. "It's because it's all they're fed. I'm quite sure that the working classes could come to appreciate the finer points of avant-garde composition if they were exposed to it. Had proper instruction. I mean, we try at the arts centre, to offer a varied diet of music..."

I tried to tune them out, sucking at my gin and tonic, but as the synthesised bass of the Beyonce track gave way to the lurch of an all too familiar woozy sub-bass. No, dear god, please. Let it be something else. Let it be the new Dizzee Rascal track, let it be some crazy electro remix of Sugababes... Christ, no, it was. It was mine and Adie's track. In any other universe, this could have been a triumph. It would have been the perfect time to smile across the table at Jack, and nod my head at the speakers above us and say 'hey, remember that crazy track I wrote over the summer, that you thought I could really do something with? Well, me and my new mates... we did something with it alright!'

Mary Worthington made a face like a bulldog licking a lemon. "This... I mean, this is just shocking. This isn't even music. It's just repetitive beats, like a machine. For crying out loud, it's not even in tune. That bass, it makes me feel distinctly queasy."

I couldn't help myself. I saw red. To be honest, if we'd been sitting in the ICA and something that weird came on, she would have nodded her perfectly coiffed head and made some airy comment about transgressing the expectations of the tyranny of pitch. But because we were in a grotty working class pub in Wiltshire, listening to grotty black music on grotty, proletariat pirate radio, no, it was just shit.

"It's supposed to be that way," I tried to say carefully, but I found myself mumbling it into my drink apologetically.

"What?" Mary Worthington demanded. "What's supposed to be what way?"

"The bass. It's supposed to wobble like that. It's a deliberate statement, they do it with portamento and pitch bend. It's to prove that it's a human being making that sound, and not a machine, that it's not automated and pitch-corrected and autotuned to death. And they put it just slightly out of synch, and they move the accented rhythm to the third beat, to create a sense of tension. It comes out of Dub Reggae, that off-beat. That you expect it to come on the downbeat, but by pushing it just off-beat, it tricks the brain, makes it exciting," I explained, hearing Adie's and Ollie's excited explanations of the music they loved come rushing out of my mouth.

"Well, it doesn't sound exciting, it just sounds incorrect," Mary Worthington insisted, staring at me as if the furniture had just gone into revolt and started disagreeing with her. "It sounds ugly. It's shocking that they get away with it."

Jack cringed, casting me a desperate glance as if begging me to shut up, and suggested that we adjourn to the restaurant next door, but Chunky Knitwear looked at me carefully. "All great new art seems shocking, even ugly at first."

"They were talking about Impressionism, darling, not this hideous clattering noise," Mary Worthington intoned as she reached for her coat, and that was the end of it.

We managed not to fight until we got home, but then we blew up. I'd had the better part of a bottle of wine at dinner, and I was feeling distinctly spiky and on edge. I still hadn't told Jack about the track, but it wasn't so much his comments that had irked as the easy way he'd just rolled over and agreed with Mary Worthington, and not even thought to listen to what I'd said. Furious would had my back. Furious would have agreed with me - he loved the new generation of bass music - but even if he hadn't agreed with me, he would at least have listened to me, and heard out my arguments.

Walking into the kitchen, I moved straight from wine to whisky, pouring myself a large glass, forgetting that Jack was still relatively sober, as he'd had to drive us home. "You drink too much," he observed.

I merely snorted, thinking that if thought this was bad, he would absolutely have apoplexy at the amount that me and the boys got through at Plastic People or Mass or the End.

"I mean, it's bad enough that you embarrass me at dinner, first by turning up dressed like a tramp, and then by drinking yourself into a stupor. But to come home, and start on my very best whisky... it's disgusting."

"You're disgusting," I shot back, barely believing what was coming out of my mouth. "I hate your friends. I hate the arts council. I hate Wiltshire. I hate galleries and shows and sound art and I hate the wanky, pretentious, snobby things that come out of their mouths, but most of all, I hate the way you just swallow it all, tug your forelock and ask for more. What happened to the Jack Dunbar that told Charles Saatchi to take his million pound art collection and shove it? That he might collect all of Britain, but he could not collect you? What happened to that man, the man that I married? Because I don't see him any more. I just see Mary Worthington and she sticks her Arts Council grants in your mouth, and you just suck, suck, suck."

Jack stared back at me, open-mouthed. I had hit him, and I had wounded him badly. That was the thing - you couldn't be married to someone for nearly ten years without knowing where their weakest spots were. And I had flailed wildly in my drunkenness, and I had hit it, square on.

Grabbing the bottle of whisky away from me, he poured himself a massive shot and sank it in one gulp, then turned back to me, his eyes red around the rims. "I was wondering, since when do you care so much about trashy urban pop that you feel the need to go in on the one person on the Arts Council who still has any time for me. But now I know, it's not trashy urban pop, it's me."

"I've always been into trashy urban pop. I was in a trashy urban pop group when I met you, and I'm still making horrible, dirty, glorious trashy urban pop."

"That track was rubbish, I don't even know why we you were fighting over it," he snorted, trying to gain the higher ground, and pretend that he wasn't as wounded as I knew he was.

"That track was mine." Fuck, I hadn't meant to tell him like that, aimed like a weapon in a bitter fight. It was meant to be a glorious triumph, a happy surprise, not a knife twisted in his gut.

"What?"

"That track was mine. I wrote it. Well, I co-wrote it with one of my mates from the Loophole forum. You kept saying, you should do something with your music. So I bloody well did. And I got it released, and got it on the fucking radio. And this is how you treat it?"

"Oh my god." The colour drained out of his face as the fight drained out of his voice. "I am... I am so, so sorry, Lucy. I had no idea. You didn't tell me. Is this what we've come to, that we're keeping secrets from one another?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise." My voice started out cold and hurt, but ended almost in a wail.

"Well, it was a surprise alright." Jack's voice got oddly quieter, the more emotional he got.

I sunk down to the chair, feeling for the table, watching him, though he was unable to meet my gaze. "I want to go home."

"What, back to London? It's late, the last train will have gone."

"First thing tomorrow, then."

"I'll come with you, we'll spend some time together... properly, in London."

"No," I insisted, surprised by the force in my voice. "I think, actually, Jack, it's a stroke of luck that you got this residency here. Because I think we need to spend some time apart."

"What?" Jack gasped, like a dying fish flopping around on a river bank, grasping for words. "Are you saying you want to divorce me?"

"No, I'm just saying that we need some time apart."

"I think we've had too much time apart, I think that's the problem."

"No, I think that this is the first time in ten years, that I've been able to breathe. The first time I've been able to remember who I am, when I'm not running around after you. And I needed to remember that."

"But I need you."

"If you need me, why do you take me for granted, Jack?"

"Because you're my wife, you're the one person I'm supposed to be able to take for granted!"

"That you think that... is precisely the problem. I'm going to sleep in the spare room. I'm going home in the morning."

"You won't. You'll sober up, and you'll change your mind. You'll see the beauty of this place, you'll forget all about it." He was grasping at straws, pretending he was still calm and in control, but his voice was breaking as I turned and walked away.

 

\-----

 

I thought I'd feel better when I got back to London, but I didn't, not much. I opened my DAW and threw myself into my music, and suddenly found it flowing again, ideas for songs rippling from my fingers so thick and fast that I barely had time to sketch one idea out before another one would start to form. I wrote in a fury, barely stopping to eat or bathe.

 

I didn't check the forum, I was too scared to speak to SleepFuriously. He wasn't the cause of my bust-up with Jack, I knew that - he was just a symptom, a friendly ear who had shown me what a relationship could be, if one's partner were truly supportive... Wait, no, that came out wrong. Half of me desperately craved to speak to him, wondering what kind of advice he would give. But the other half was terrified that he would leap to that same conclusion, and either blame himself for my separation with Jack or... or what?

Such a heavy weight hung on that what.

No, this was fucking absurd. How could I even be asking myself that question - would I leave Jack for Furious? I didn't even know the man's name. He was a phantom, a purely imaginary being whipped up out of my own loneliness and frustrations. It was like the Thom Yorke thing, writ somewhat smaller, in the 12 pt Helvetica of the forum. How could the greasy roadie behind the screen name ever, possibly live up to the image of SleepFuriously that I had conjured up in my head? I turned off the internet and got back to my DAW.

It was a few days before a text message dinged on my phone.

 

> **Adie** : where u at eyesore? ain't seen u on the forum in days. furious is ready to send out a search party, the poor man is pining for u
> 
> **Lucy** : sorry, things have just been mad around here. i've been getting lots of work done on music. got 3 new tracks ready 2go
> 
> **Adie** : 3 nu tracks? that makes 5! that's halfway 2 an album, m8!
> 
> **Lucy** : do u think steve would let us do an album?
> 
> **Adie** : u kidding? the way the single is selling? he'd stab his gran for a full-length
> 
> **Lucy** : u at Brixton next Sat? we can talk about it then
> 
> **Adie** : coo. & drop furious a line before he blows a gasket, k? x

 

I chose email as the least troublesome method, as I was still trying to avoid the forum, and I had no idea what time zone the Radiohead tour had even got to.

 

> Hey Furious - how's tricks? Thom Yorke working your arse hard? Sorry I've been quiet, I went out to Wiltshire for a bit. Jack has a show at Marlborough Arts Centre and a residency in a cottage nearby. Things are... things are kinda strained with Jack at the moment, to be honest. Strained and strange. But you don't need to know that. Adie said you were asking after me, so I thought I'd just check in. Hope all is well with you. Lucy x

 

> eyesore!
> 
> thomyorke has working my arse far too hard lately. fucking hate that guy right now.
> 
> so u were in wiltshire? i wish i'd known. we're back in oxford for a 3 week break but i'm climbing up the walls. can't relax properly if i know i have to go back out on the road again. but if i'd known u were only over the hill and thru the forest it'd have made me a bit happier.
> 
> sorry to hear things aren't so great with jack. to be honest, things aren't exactly easy here, either, but you don't need to hear about that either
> 
> "furious" in oxfordshire

 

> Furious - you know, you can talk to me if you need to. I'm not as good at fixing relationships as I am at fixing Moogs and Rolands, but if you need an ear I'm here for you. I remember the de-pressurisation when you get off tour, it always took me about a week to come down and get back to earth, I think it would almost be worse to have such a long stretch of time. Are you driving your girlfriend absolutely nuts? I used to drive Jack nuts. Heh, he's still out in Marlborough if you want to go and drive each other nuts together without us girls around. Lucy x

 

> lucy - no, my girlfriend is studying abroad at the moment. it's just me rattling round the house on my lonesome. we knew i'd be working so much this year that we reckoned it'd be a good time for her to go and finish her phd. but it's not good for me to be on my own so much. i get weird, paranoid. i spend too much time in my own head. i go kinda feral when she's not around to rein me in.
> 
> i did take yr advice yesterday and drove out to marlboro to see jack's show (it's really not that far from oxford) - didn't see him, but i did see the work. it's... well, it's different from what i was expecting. i'm not sure i like it as much as the electrickery stuff. it seems to me like he's a bit stuck in a rut. does he suffer from creative block? i know artists can be an absolute nitemare to live with when they're blocked. i'm sure i've done it to my girlfriend many times. be patient w him if that's what's wrong. even if - well, especially if your in the middle of a rlly fertile period like it seems you are. he might be feeling... i dunno. defensive. threatened. be gentle with him. and take care of yrself x

 

Staring at the computer screen, I suddenly felt very guilty. How long had it been since Jack had explored a really new and exciting concept? I couldn't remember, to be honest. All the big things, the things that Furious remembered - they'd all been a decade ago, back when we were first married. The National Grid. Neon Leakage. The Electrified Gallery. The Wire Cathedral. Big Bang! Then there was five years of taking them around from gallery to gallery, around the world. Then three years of desperately trying to come up with new ideas - that was when the money had stopped coming in, and I'd gone back to work as a computer programmer to try and take the strain off him. And then the past two years, he had, indeed, been in a holding pattern, trying to get money off the Arts Council to take his shows round smaller and smaller arts centres in Middle England. Maybe it wasn't me he was shouting at for my failure, it was himself.

Picking up the phone, I flipped through my address book until I found the number of the cottage in Wiltshire, and dialled. It rang, once, twice, then Jack answered, sounding very fragile and far away. "Hello?"

"Hey."

"Lucy." His voice wavered, then he steadied it. "I thought you hated me."

"No," I sighed. "I don't hate you. And I'm sorry for the things I said last weekend. I was blind drunk, and I was trying to hurt you."

He sighed deeply. "I went looking for your single. Had to drive all the way into Oxford to buy it." For a terrible second, I wondered if he'd been in Oxford the same day that Furious had driven out to Marlborough to see his show, then stifled the thought. "It's... it's really good. I'm sorry I slagged it off. It is actually beautiful. I'm proud of you."

I wanted to burst into tears. His voice sounded so strained, like it was costing him so much to admit that he had liked something I'd done - but then I realised. Jack never apologised. Never explain, never apologise, it was the one thing he'd learned off Margaret Thatcher. "Thank you. That's very sweet of you."

"Do you still want to divorce me, then?"

"I don't want a divorce, Jack. I just want some time. To think things over, work things out, remember who I am. I'm as scared and confused as you are, OK?"

"So you don't know what you're doing either, while you're putting me through this? Oh, fucking fantastic."

"Jack, for once, can you please, just not be sarcastic and snide? It's really passive aggressive." Please, let us not get in a fight, over the phone.

"I'm sorry." Two apologies in one conversation, that was an incredible rarity. "It's a lazy bad habit, I didn't realise it bothered you so much."

"I just wanted to see how you were doing. I'll talk to you later, I guess,"

"I'm doing alright I suppose. I hope you are, too, Luce."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Radiohead's UK tour reaches London, almost the entire Loophole forum descends on Earl's Court.
> 
> Will Lucy have the nerve to actually meet her mysterious roadie, SleepFuriously, or will she bottle it to go dancing with Four Tet and the Interstep crew?

I made a solemn promise to try to spend less time flirting with Furious. It was myself I was trying to discover and get to know, and I was never going to get to know that self if I threw myself immediately into another relationship - especially such a fantasy internet relationship as I was developing with Furious. But when his name popped up on Instant Messenger, or his email dinged in my inbox, I couldn't help myself. I could tell he was bored, sitting around by himself in a flat in Oxford, and when he was bored, he became mischievous, and a mischievous Furious was actually a hilarious Furious. I don't know if he was parodying Jack, or just trying to cheer me up, but he kept on sending over ridiculous ideas for art projects.

 

> **SleepFuriously** : giant jellyfish descend over oxford. giant space jellyfish
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can just see it now, floating in the sky, their tentacles catching on all the spires
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : like hot air balloon floating by, buoyed up by all the hot air coming out of the colleges. with long trails of sticky tentacles sucking up students and intellectuals and professors, up into the sky
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Marine life revolts. There are way more of them than there are of us, you know. I was watching The Blue Planet the other night, you know that the diversity of life in the sea is like a thousand fold what's on the land
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : they should take over. the jellyfish and the algae and those deep sea creatures with the glowing lights. a giant tidal wave coming up the thames, sweep all humanity away
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's a bit grim, Furious. I like to think we could form an alliance. though perhaps not with the squid. i think they're only out for themselves. all hail cthulhu and all that
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : they'll eat us alive. nibble on our bones at the bottom of the sea. and i, for one, welcome our new jellyfish overlords!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I think you have been spending entirely too much time on tour with Radiohead, that totally sounds like their lyrics. Go for a walk in the sunshine or something.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : go for a walk in the sunshine? u've been spending too much time talking to me lately, u r starting to sound like me ha ha

 

I sent some of the tracks I'd been working on across to Adie, who remained effusive in his praise. He would take the melodies I'd written and turn them inside out, explode them, and reconstitute their bare bones into elegant new underwater castles of sound, boomy and echoing. Sometimes I didn't even recognise the things I'd sent him, until he pointed out the weird high flutey noise, and insisted "That's the riff you sent me, I pitch-shifted it up two octaves and sped it up to match the drum loops."

Things were going really well for Adie - he was DJ-ing up and down the country now, playing a regular night in Leeds as well as London and Bristol. He'd made enough money to move out of Peckham and was now sharing a house in Croydon with Ollie and another boy named Art who kept such peculiar nocturnal hours that I never seemed to see him, even on the afternoons I made the trek down to cut a few vocals for the album. Of course Adie wouldn't treat my vocals normally, he pitch-shifted them and moved them all about the spectrum, transforming me until you couldn't tell if I was a woman or a man or an interstellar robot or one of Furious' sentient jellyfish overlords. 

Interstep, it seemed, was turning into an actual real thing. Although they already had enough releases to last through into next year, just from their mates in the scene, people were starting to treat it like it was something worth getting involved with. Demo CDs and mixtapes had started flooding in, both to the record shop - where Ollie still worked, more to keep an eye on the temperature of the scene, than for money - and Interstep Towers, the shared house cum studio that was becoming the hub of their operations.

Ollie and Steve still bickered back and forth like they had over the counter of their record shop. I'd thought that the nascent success of Internet would calm Ollie down and make him less hyper, now that money had started coming in from the sales of the Axiom N Atom record, but if anything it seemed to have the opposite effect. He was like an explosion of a young man, carrying on about six conversations all at the same time, mobiles sprouting out of each ear as he organised club nights, booked gigs and tried to sign more acts for the record label. Steve, by contrast, smoked more and more pot and became so laid-back he was almost horizontal, though according to Adie, he was actually the brains behind the operation, keeping the books and adding up the money to make sure that no one tried to rip them or his artists off.

I had been on the Loophole so little, caught up in shuffling back and forth between my office and the makeshift studio in Croydon that I barely had time to go on the web, carrying on my conversations with Furious on my Blackberry on the Thameslink. I didn't even realise that Radiohead were back on tour again until Furious' emails started coming in at irregular hours again, talking about Germany instead of the Upper Thames. Shit! There were meet-ups to organise, in London and Glasgow - were they really going to be in London in only two weeks? On one hand, I was hugely excited, to meet everyone, to see everyone - oh yeah, and of course see the band for the second time that year. But on the other hand, every step Furious came closer to London seemed to bring my decisions about my marriage and my life closer and closer to the surface I'd been avoiding. It wasn't fair to Furious to use him as a symbol of everything that had gone wrong in my marriage, but it was just too easy, all the ways in which he seemed perfect were the ways in which Jack seemed lacking - his optimism, his wicked and childlike sense of humour, and most of all the sensitivity and concern with which he actually asked after my music and my creative projects.

Another week, and the Radiohead tour touched down on British soil. It felt like watching the progress of an invading army, the show reports coming across Europe ever closer - Berlin, Paris, Brussels. And then suddenly they were in Manchester.

"i heard yr track, actually on the radio, for the first time!" Furious enthused. "i made a stop at piccadilly records before load-in and picked up the 12" - gonna try to see if i can get them to add it to the pre-show music."

But I was too busy to really process what he was offering. Organising the meet-up was a nightmare. Allen was driving in from Basingstoke and picking Windowlicker up at Reading, though he was going to be staying down with Adie and the Croydon Massive. MizzTing was flying in from Berlin, and had agreed to let PrincessTelex stay in her hotel room in order to assuage her mother's concerns about letting her go to a rock concert on her own. BearHunt kept changing his mind about whether he wanted to meet us or whether we would just be too much of a gang of screaming fangirls and techno-heads. CryingMinotaur was going to come down, but then he wasn't at the last minute, as he got conscripted in for extra hours at work and had to swap his London ticket for a Nottingham one. But all in all, I was excited. I was hugely excited.

Furious emailed me to let me know that I had two spots on the guest list, if I wanted to bring Jack. I agonised over that decision, but when I even brought it up, Jack complained so much about how much he hated pop music, he hated stadium gigs and most of all, he hated that forum I spent so much time on (and I think he secretly blamed for our separation) so in the end, I told him not to bother and asked Adie to be my date. Adie already had a free ticket, thanks to Kieran, but he gave that one to Steve in exchange for half an ounce of sinsemilla to get us in the mood for the gig, and agreed to accompany me, though he reserved the right to swap back, contingent on whether Kieran or Furious could provide better seats.

The meet-up was insane. Allen had actually rung ahead and booked out the entire downstairs of a restaurant near the venue, but Adie and I got there first. I spotted Allen a mile away, he just looked so much like a middle aged computer programer that I half expected him to pull out a lanyard and click into the server room. But still, I let out an excited shriek at finally meeting him face to face, running over to hug him. Windowlicker was a surprise - I'd expected him to be a spotty teenage terror, but he was actually a tall, lanky public school boy with impeccable table manners and a long, floppy blond fringe that swooped continually into his eyes. 

A cloud of pink glitter down the stairs announced the arrival of PrincessTelex and MizzTing, both of them reeking of cheap perfume and covered in Barry M cosmetics. Telexie (Alexie in real life, appropriately enough) was exactly as I imagined her to be - a hyperactive and slightly chubby English schoolgirl in trendy geek glasses and an asymmetrical dyed-black fringe, who hugged everyone twice and distributed little presents that she'd brought for all the board regulars. She'd baked us all cookies, some of them iced to look like little records, or drum machines - mine was a Moog and Adie's was a 303 - but claimed she was saving the best to give to the band. She and Windowlicker - Joe, rather - stared at each other warily for a while, then decided to sit together. I noted that in person, she rather dominated and teased and pinched him in exactly the way that he did to her online, but he just grinned sheepishly and smiled at her soppily.

And MizzTing. Oh my god, how to describe MizzTing? She was a tall, elegant, black, apparently cis woman of indeterminate age, with close-cropped hair bleached almost silver to match her silver leather trousers and sparkly frock coat. In contrast to her over the top online personna, she was actually quite quiet, serious and gently intellectual, in person. But the real surprise wasn't her gender - though honestly I wouldn't have been surprised if she had turned up and been an actual space alien - it was her laid-back Southern Californian accent.

"Oh my god, you're American," I gasped. We had clocked each other immediately, but kind of circled each other slowly, somehow knowing we would either end up enemies or closer than sisters depending on how we made our first moves. "I had no idea - I was going to compliment you on your excellent English, for a German."

"My folks are from LA, but my dad was serving on an army base near Koln when I was born. Because there were complications, I was actually born in a local hospital, instead of on the base, and spent the first six months of my life in intensive care there, so I managed to wrangle dual citizenship out of it," she shrugged. "I've been all over the world - lived on five continents by the time I was 10, so Berlin is pretty much the only place I've ever felt at home." She hugged me again, then stared at Adie. "Now I seen a lot of things in Berlin, but you are one striking looking man."

Adie laughed and self-consciously ran his hand through his uncontrollable hair. "Yeah, I know I'm a freak, but I thought you liked freaks?" he replied somewhat defensively, but MizzTing's broad smile disarmed him. "You should see my sisters, Colleen and Niamh. Colleen's a professional singer, but people stop Niamh on the street and ask if she's a model."

"You should totally model, man," MizzTing insisted, looking him up and down with a professional eye. "You've got the height and you've got the bone structure."

"Down, MizzTing," I teased. "He's a 20 year old British lad, and he's terrified of girls. Leave him alone."

"Honey, I ain't no cradle-robber, I just know talent when I see it."

"I dunno." Adie seemed to blossom under the attention. "Someone approached me at Plastic People the other day when I was DJ-ing and asked if I wanted to do a shoot for Dazed, but... y'know..." He twisted uncomfortably, like a young man who was almost embarrassed by his own beauty. "I dunno. Lucy said we should really work the anonymity thing for Axiom N Atom..."

"I said I wanted to be anonymous - I didn't say you had to be. If you want to model for Dazed, you do it! Hell, doesn't do my reputation any harm, I'm taking a super-model as my date to Radiohead."

"Like, superstar DJ isn't good enough for you? Shit," Adie sighed, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.

"You two are so cute," MizzTing laughed. "If the pop star thing doesn't work out, you're so gonna get married and have babies."

"I'm already married," I insisted, waving my ring in her face.

"Yeah, well, we already know who you'd give that up in a heartbeat for..." MizzTing teased. "...and we'll be seeing him in a couple of hours!"

My face darkened, and I felt suddenly very defensive. "Look, my feelings for Sleep Furiously are completely platonic. I don't know why you lot can't understand how a man and a woman can be just friends."

MizzTing drew back, a surprised expression on her face. "Honey, I didn't say anything about Sleep Furiously. I was talking about Thom Yorke. Is there something we don't know about going on here?"

Adie grinned broadly. "She's supposed to be meeting him after the show. If she can get the nerve up... I reckon she'll bottle it and come to Plastic People with me."

"I said I might! I haven't actually agreed to anything." My fury turned to a deep blush.

"What's Plastic People?" MizzTing demanded. "Do you guys know of any clubs going on afterwards? I wanna see how the legendary London nightlife compares to Berlin."

His face lighting up at the prospect of turning someone else on to the music he loved, Adie launched into a glowing description of the club, and the weird, warped new dance music that they played there.

I flitted about for the rest of dinner - I spent a few minutes watching Joe and Lexie making gooey eyes at one another over shared memories of Kid A, then moved on to chat to Allen, only to find that he had somehow... multiplied. Sitting next to him was another, almost identical computer programmer type in chinos, a faded Bends T-shirt and a thinning ponytail. So this was his bitter online rival, the notorious BearHunt. And for once, they were not fighting, they were comparing pints and deeply engaged in a discussion of Real Ale festivals in the Southeast. So this was our little community. I smiled as I looked over our crowded table and felt a little warmth glowing in my heart. They were good people, my internet friends, and I couldn't think of a group I'd rather share such a special concert with.

We had to split up to get in the queue. Allen, BearHunt - or rather, Barry - MizzTing (we never got a real name out of her - she claimed "even my Mom calls me Ms. Ting these days") Joe and Lexie all went round to get in the main queue - though Allen caught sight of one of the atease moderators, who let them all cut the queue about 50 people from the front. All around us, we could hear the building shaking with the volume of soundcheck, as the ateasers and Loopholers competed to Name That Tune fastest. Adie and I said our goodbyes, then walked off to locate Steve in a haze of potsmoke down a side alley. We smoked for a bit with him, just enough to take the rising edge of panic off my nerves, then went round to join the much shorter guest list queue on the other side, by the stage door.

Kieran appeared briefly and said hello and stopped for a chat with Adie and Steve before ducking into the building to start his own soundcheck. I thanked him for the remix, then nervously asked him how the crew were, to the accompaniment of Adie's and Steve's incessant giggling.

"I dunno," Kieran frowned. "Things have been a bit tense, to be honest. There was some problem with main arrays at load-in so the set-up was delayed and everything's running a bit late. For a while, I wasn't sure if I was gonna get a soundcheck at all. But I'm sure they'll sort it out. They're all professionals, they really know their stuff."

I would have asked after Furious, but again, I didn't even know his real name, to ask for him. The woman on the door was no help at all - she told us we were on the band's personal list, then handed us our tickets and sticky passes. I was going to stick it in my pocket as a souvenir, as I had no intention of going backstage at all, especially now that Kieran had said everything was really tense, but the door woman barked at me and told me that I had to wear it. Adie and Steve displayed theirs proudly, puffing out their chests, but I moved mine discreetly down to my thigh, out of prying eyes' line of sight.

Adie wanted to go and find Kieran's dressing room and hang out, but I talked him out of it, especially once Steve found a internal courtyard that everyone seemed to be using as an informal smoking lounge. I accepted a free beer from someone, but the ganja was so strong I didn't really need it. I just wanted to find my way back to my seat and sit down, and listen to the world spinning around me.

Kieran's set was absolutely perfect, sparkly and lovely, all disconnected bits of bell chimes and jangling guitar mixed up and swirled with jazzy drums and throbbing basslines. It amazed me, how such playful and whimsical music could come out of that solemn and serious young man, the lightness, the deftness of it so completely unlike his shy and hesitant persona. I just sat back and closed my eyes and watched coloured lights play on the inside of my eyelids as the music rushed around my head.

And then the house lights came back up, and roadies started scurrying around the stage, clearing Kieran's stuff out of the way, and bringing in amps, a drumkit, a familiar looking keyboard draped with a Tibetan flag. I could feel the excitement rising like panic in the back of my throat, inching onto the edge of my seat as I peered down, trying to work out which of those scurrying men might be Furious.

Our seats were fantastic - we were raised up just above the floor at the front, where I could see that Joe and Lexie had managed to push their way to the front of the melee, hanging on to the rail for dear life, but we were still so close I felt I could reach out and touch the stage if I tried. In half an hour - no, only 20 minutes now, according to the schedule that had been posted on the backstage wall - Radiohead would come out on that stage. I looked around to see if I recognised anyone in the VIP area - a couple of journalists, some minor indie pop stars - but then Kieran emerged from backstage and was swarmed by Adie and Steve. I was too stoned to say more than hello as Kieran made introductions and Adie and Steve mingled with the various bigwigs backstage, but I slowly started to understand that DJ Atom was actually a name that was recognised by these people. For a moment, I considered revealing that I was actually Axiom, but I felt very sluggish and disinclined to even speak, especially with the wonderful pre-gig music swirling around my head. What on earth was this? It was classical music, obviously, but had strange electronic whoops and plink-plonks woven through the orchestra. Perhaps Jack would know. I made a mental note to ask him when I got home, but then the idea that I should actually feel slightly guilty about Jack rose to the surface of my stoned mind, and I moved swiftly on.

"Hey, Lucy, they're playing your song," Kieran observed as the music shifted, and a familiar wobbling bass boomed out across the huge auditorium. I felt my mind go blank, but Adie and Steve were both smiling so wide I thought their heads were going to expand like balloons and go floating off into the dark, dizzy heights of the Earl's Court roof. I swore, one of the roadies seemed to stop what he was doing and looked up, his hand to his eyes, as if he was scanning the VIP seats for a reaction from someone, and I wondered for the briefest of seconds if that was Furious. He was a decent looking man, with longish, slightly scruffy hair and a kind face, but as a wave of applause cascaded down the rail, I dragged my eyes away and saw Thom standing almost out of sight, just behind one of the giant stacks of monitors, a huge grin on his face as he bobbed his head to the beat. Oh. My. God. Thom Yorke was dancing to my track, weaving his shoulders back and forth as he used the music to psych himself up.

He was so small, that was the first thing that always struck me whenever I saw him onstage. With his huge voice and his oversized stage presence, it always shocked me when I saw him, his slight body, skinny, verging on frail, and his toothpick legs, almost lost in baggy jeans. I looked at him, and I couldn't breathe. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, but no, it was just Adie tapping me gently on the back and offering me an illicit joint that had come by way of Kieran. I didn't need any more, and yet still I smoked it, hoping that the tension and the nerves would go away.

The lights dimmed, and an even bigger roar went up from the crowd as five thin men spread out across the stage. One of them flicked a switch, and a weird, electronic slithering noise seeped out across the stage. Drums kicked in, an electronic chatter, then Thom stepped up to the microphone, his slight shoulders wrapped in a leather jacket, bathed in an unearthly blue glow as he opened his mouth and started to sing. "Genie let out of the bottle, it is now the witching hour..."

The crowd surged forward and I lost sight of Lexie, but I saw the top of Joe's head, pushing back against the wave of people. The music was overwhelming, the people, the lights, but I felt glued to my seat, my body so heavy, weighed down by the emotional force of the man standing a few meters below me. "Your alarm bells, they should be ringing..."

I lay back and gave myself to the music, it was the only thing I could do. Song followed song, and Adie gave out a little cry of surprise and happiness as we recognised them. Damn! They were playing My Iron Lung - I could only imagine the look of surprise and awe on BearHunt's face. Then the shuffling drums of Where You End And I Begin, a song that found tears streaming down my face as I thought how hard it was to untangle my mess of a life from Jack's. Every song seemed aimed right at my heart, as if Thom was singing right to me. The manic, frenetic dancing of Myxomatosis, the stately grandeur of Sail To The Moon followed by the almost impossible bombast of Lucky. The spliff went round again during Paranoid Android - Adie was on his feet, singing along, though I had no idea how he could even move at this point. The laser noises at the end of Sit Down. Stand Up. seemed to slice right through my head as I hallucinated colour and sound blending into one giant tapestry of beauty, with Thom Yorke standing at the centre of it, beaming out waves of love, as if he were soaking up the adulation of the crowd and reflecting it back a thousand fold, like a giant funhouse mirror. During Idioteque, Adie dragged me to my feet, and I found myself dancing. How could I ever have stayed still to this music? I wanted to jump up and down and shout and throw myself about and declare to those five figures down on the stage just how much I loved them. I had forgotten Jack. I had forgotten Furious. I had forgotten the Loophole even existed, all I knew was that this music was beautiful and perfect, swaying along like a tree as Thom's voice soared up into the ether on Fake Plastic Trees.

That seemed to remind Adie. "Mate!" he screamed at Kieran over the music. "Are you going to Plastic People afterwards? There's supposed to be a secret DJ set by James Holden!"

"Dunno, I might. Are you and Steve going?"

"Wild horses couldn't keep us away. You should come, play that new track you just at the end of your set. People would go mad, man."

"Hush, you guys!" I hissed. "I'm trying to listen to the music." Ed and Jonny were standing at either side of the stage, like a pair of sentinels, slamming on drums as the beginning of There There rang out. The words seemed like a red-hot dart, aimed straight at my heart. "Steer away from these rocks, we'd be a walking disaster..."

"Can we go now?" hissed Steve, who was clearly not that impressed by rock music, and itching to make it to Plastic People before there was a queue.

"No way, just watch. Another two encores to go," Kieran announced, and lit another spliff to convince Steve to stay.

"Do you know what they're gonna play?" Adie demanded. "Are they gonna do Everything In Its Right Place?"

"No idea, it's been a different set every night. Loads of surprises. I've no idea how they pull it off."

I clapped along with the crowd, chanting for the band to return, and finally they returned, Thom scooting up against the piano, putting his eye right up against the video camera like he had done during the web chat. As he started You And Whose Army I could actually hear Lexie squeal with delight, down in the front row, as he turned and grinned straight at her with a look of pure evil.

I lost track of time. Everything seemed to collapse in on itself. They did three encores... no, two. It just felt like three because they stretched Everything In Its Right Place out so long, spinning it out into a skittering electronic jam, Thom singing and dancing like a maniac as Jonny crouched by the side of the stage with a Kaos pad, turning his voice into a wailing, shrieking banshee cry.

The lights finally came back up, but I didn't want to move, I felt so utterly overwhelmed, powerless to move from my seat. Even though the house sound system had taken over, playing a stream of obscure indie rock, I couldn't believe it was really over. I wanted them to come back and play again. Why was I only going the one night? I wanted to scour the web for tickets and come back, do it all over again. Maybe I could beg Furious for another set of tickets... but the bottom dropped out of my stomach at the thought of Furious. My head was too full of Thom Yorke to think properly. Fuck, how was I supposed to go backstage and make polite conversation with Furious, knowing that Thom Yorke was only a few yards away - possibly even in the same room if he made me go to the aftershow party.

Kieran and Adie were trying to make plans, even as they were debating whether they would go to the aftershow first or jump in a taxi straight over to Plastic People. "We gotta go, mate, I just got a text from Ollie - he says he can hold four spots for us on the guest list, but only until midnight. We gotta get over there, or risk not getting in."

"OK, OK, let me just go check on my gear. I'm leaving it here overnight, but I just want to check everything got stowed OK," Kieran sputtered.

"Skip the aftershow," Steve blustered. "They were alright, you know, but I don't wanna go meet no fuckin' rock band."

As I moved to follow them, towards the backstage door, Adie turned to me. "What about you, Lucy? Are you gonna go look for Furious, or are you gonna come with us?" It seemed almost like a challenge, as if he was asking, who's your real friends, him or us? It was like a cricket test for internet versus real life. No, don't be ridiculous, that was just the paranoia from the pot talking.

"I don't know." My head spun.

"Nope, sorry, you can't come back in this way." A bouncer blocked our path, even as Kieran tried to reason with him, showing his performer's pass. "Alright, you can come in. But those others, they gotta go back out."

"But we have passes for the aftershow," I insisted thickly.

"Yeah, so go back outside, to the door where you lined up to start with, and they'll let you in and take you through to the party. But we can't just have people wandering around the area while the roadies are trying to clear the stage. Health and safety risk."

"I'll meet you at the stage door in ten minutes, OK?" Kieran promised. "Then we can all get a taxi over."

I let Adie pull me away, off down the stairs and back outside, confused by the thousands of indie kids wandering around, trying to find buses, trains, their mates. It was like a bomb had gone off in Earl's Court, and there were bands of sweaty survivors milling around looking for help. I tried to spot Allen or MizzTing or anyone I knew, but it was impossible. Instead, we fought backwards against the current of people to find our way back to the backstage door. Adie put his head down and his hands in his pockets, making a beeline for the door, ready to flash his pass, but I heard someone calling my name. 

"Lucy! Over here!" I turned to see Lexie, Joe and MizzTing standing in a loose gaggle with a bunch of ateasers, clustered round the backstage door to wait for the band to come out. "Oh my god, that was so amazing! Did you see when Thom looked straight at me during YAWA and grinned? I nearly died!"

I just grinned, too stoned to speak, as Lexie and Joe excitedly chattered through a play by play recap of the show.

"So are you guys going clubbing?" MizzTing demanded. "I mean, I'm happy to give the spare hotel key to Lexie if Joe walks her back, but I really would rather go to a club instead of stand around a stinking alley in Earl's Court all night waiting for Radiohead to finish partying."

I turned to look, but Kieran had already emerged from the backstage door with Adie and Steve on his heels. He stopped to sign autographs for a couple of kids in the gaggle of fans, then waved at a minicab slowly making its way up the alley towards us. Everything happened all in a rush. I wanted to go backstage and at least say thank you to Furious, but Steve and Adie started quibbling over who got the front or the back seat, and whether we could fit MizzTing in if I sat on someone's lap.

"Are you going to the aftershow?" Lexie asked, desperately, he eyes huge as she eyed my unused backstage pass, still clinging to the thigh of my jeans.

In a moment, I had decided. Reaching around, I pulled Steve's pass off his shirt, removed my pass, and handed both to Lexie. "Go on, you two go. You'll enjoy it way more than I will."

"Oh my god," Lexie stuttered, staring at the passes in her hands, but Joe just shrugged and grabbed one, fixing it to his shirt.

"My pass!" protested Steve. "I was gonna keep that as a souvenir."

"Shut up, you don't even like Radiohead," I snorted.

"But it said Four Tet on it," he complained, even as I tried to squeeze myself into the taxi, perching on Adie's lap as MizzTing pulled the door closed and the taxi backed off down the alley, headed for Shoreditch.

"Furious is gonna be furious," I sighed, realising I hadn't even left a message for him.

"What?" grunted Kieran, then turned to the driver. "Do you mind if we smoke in your cab?"

Plastic People was incredible, as predicted. It felt like a home-coming, as the four of us - well, now five, counting MizzTing - skipped ahead of the queue and got waved in. People stared at Kieran like he was a superstar - hell, they were even starting to stare at Adie that way, now that DJ Atom was starting to be well known. Steve wheedled his way into an impromptu set, then Kieran went up with his laptop and tried out a couple of the new songs he'd debuted during the Radiohead tour, and then James Holden just played and played all night, choon after choon, until we spilled out of the club at some ungodly hour, staggering down Old Street, my shoes with their stupid, ridiculous heels in my hands as MizzTing haggled with a cornershop owner to sell us some afterhours wine. I wanted to put her in a taxi back to West London and her hotel, to find out what had happened to Lexie and Joe, but we somehow all ended up piling into the elevator up to mine and Jack's flat.

"Jesus Christ, Lucy, I had no idea you were so loaded," Adie gushed as he staggered out onto the balcony overlooking a large, overgrown private garden behind our building. "This place is lush!"

"I'm not loaded. Jack's family is loaded," I explained apologetically, suddenly seeing the place through the eyes of the Croydon Massive. Kieran was giggling and picking up little bits of Jack's clutter, weird sculptures and bits of electronic kit.

"Where's your loo?" Steve demanded.

"That door... actually, no, better to use that one by the spare room. Who knows what girly shit is in the main bathroom," I stuttered, trying to find nibbles in the kitchen for all of them.

"You have two loos?" Adie laughed. "Jesus Christ, you're posh. We had only one for all of us - parents, brothers and sisters - and there were six of us!"

"Wow, this is cool," Kieran observed, picking up one of Jack's sound-sculptures and plucking the strings intently.

"If you break that, I am fucking dead."

"Oops."

"Hey! Check out this Moog! Let's hook it up and have a jam session!" MizzTing had discovered my workbench.

 

\-----

 

I have no idea how I got rid of them all in the end. To be honest, I was so wasted and groggy when I finally awoke in late afternoon that I would have not been surprised to stumble through and find Adie collapsed on the sofa, but I was fortunately alone. And feeling very, very guilty about blowing Furious out. I logged onto the internet and scanned the forum, looking for his name, but he hadn't been online. PrincessTelex had been - she must have got up at the crack of down to write a 3-page review of the meet-up, the gig, the aftershow, and lots and lots and lots of very overexcited gushing about how amazing Thom was, how lovely he had been to them, how polite and friendly he had been, how he'd taken the time to talk to Lexie at length - for about twenty minutes - about the show, and the band's lyrics, and the Loophole tracks they'd chosen, and what it all meant. My heart choked in my throat a little. Christ, I hadn't even thought about what I'd done, sending an obsessive teenage girl right into the middle of the aftershow to badger Thom, but apparently he had been lovely about it, and had even put off talking to journalists twice to make sure that she and Joe had enjoyed the evening.

I just stared at the screen. It was so unexpected. After all the rumours about how difficult Thom could be, and how intimidated I was by him, it just seemed like such a nice gesture. He had to be an actually decent man, in the midst of all that craziness, to make sure that two obsessive fans had a good experience at their gig.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Did you speak to Furious at all? Did you even meet him?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : no. the roadies were really busy, but i told thom to tell him that you said thank you for the tickets.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh my god. What did Thom say?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : he looked kinda sad. and then he said that furious would be really disappointed. but then he laughed and said that it served furious right for spending all that time on the internet, when he should be working.

 

Then SubterraneanHomesickAllen chipped in with a somewhat more measured, but no less impressed review of the gig, saying that he had buried the hatchet with BearHunt, permanently, and they were looking forward to doing it all again that evening.

Nothing from SleepFuriously.

Well, I hadn't really expected there to be. After all, he had been up late, working, and god knows what time the band would get up to start it all over again for the second night. I opened an email and typed his address, but then couldn't think of a thing to say.

 

> Hey Furious
> 
> I'm sorry. It was chaos after the gig. Adie was fussing about the guest list at Plastic People, that we had to get there before midnight for all of us to get in, and I just thought, you know, this is going to mean so much more for PrincessTelex, this is going to be something that is going to stay with her, her entire life. And besides, I was so fucking stoned on Kieran's amazing ganja, I could barely even speak, let alone meet new people and...
> 
> Oh, fuck it, Furious. I was scared. I was scared of meeting you. I was scared of not meeting you. I was scared of this turning into something real, and I was scared of it not turning into something real. I saw you, when you came out onstage when they were playing my song, and I saw you looking up into the VIP section, with that expectant expression on your face, and I thought "could I love this man?" and I just fucking bottled it.
> 
> I'm sorry. I'm a coward, and now you know. This is why I'm too scared to do anything with my music unless it falls in my lap. This is why I married the first man who ever told me that he loved me, regardless of how I felt about him. This is why my life is so fucked up and in such a mess now, and I need to figure this out and stop hiding away, avoiding my life in the Loophole.
> 
> Lucy

 

There was no answer that night. I knew there wouldn't be, with Earl's Court the mess that it had been the previous night. I didn't even try to go out to the gig, I stayed home and nursed a bottle of wine as I watched old videotapes of me and my sister, the one official video that we made for our single, the weird, surreal Top of the Pops performance I'd been too drunk to remember, and a couple of shaky home made films our dad had made at various gigs. The little girl with the huge wig of pink hair and the ridiculous home-customised Keytar looked so excited, so full of life, so up for anything as she bounced around and sung her song about racing round the M25 to a rave where she would dance, dance, dance until time stood still. How on earth had she turned into me, in only ten years?

I finished the bottle of wine and collapsed into bed, to sleep, dreamlessly, until noon the next day. I'd blown it. I'd blown it all.

I was woken by a message dinging onto my blackberry, mistakenly left by my pillow. Ignoring the pounding in my head, I stared at the email. Sleep Furiously. I cringed, and wondered what barrage of recriminations I would face. But when I opened it, there were only a handful of words.

 

> nottingham. tomorrow. one ticket in your name. please come?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Jack try to work on their relationship, out in the wilds of Wiltshire.
> 
> When she returns to London she finds that she has missed out on the Radiohead ticket sale. Furious the mysterious roadie offers to sort her out with a guest pass, but it comes at a price.

Jack took ages to pack for Wiltshire. He rented a white van to carry all his equipment down to the arts centre, then borrowed his mum's old estate car on semi-permanent loan to carry him and his personal effects down to Marlborough, then drive about rural lanes to save him having to muck about with the once-daily rural bus service. He drove down with Luke in the white van, who promised to drive the thing back to London once unloaded, and I followed in the Volvo.

Wiltshire was pretty - I would certainly grant it that. We left the M4 at Hungerford and drove on deserted A-roads through the overhanging wilderness of Savernake Forest, like a green tunnel. I didn't mind Marlborough - it was a nice enough little market town with a Waitrose and a pokey independent bookshop, though the people seemed very much like hunting-shooting-fishing types, the kind of tweedy posh that didn't feel the need to advertise their poshness to make you feel completely out of place. I even got followed round a cornershop by an over eager security guard - _that_ didn't happen much in Bloomsbury any more - and decided not to bother with many more shops, especially not the Cath Kidson selling boutiques. I hung about while Luke and Jack unloaded, we had lunch in town, then he went back to London, and Jack and I got back in the car and drove out to the cottage.

If I'd thought the town was remote, the cottage was another world, half a mile outside a tiny village, all the way at the end of a deeply rutted dirt track. Jack swore at the road, insisting he wouldn't have brought the car up it if he'd known how bad the surface was, the track winding through overhanging trees, with steep banks built up on either side, until it finally emerged into a field, giving me my first view of the house. The setting was beautiful, a little plot nestled among the trees at the base of the hanging wood that covered the side of a chalk outcrop, so that it seemed as if the woods would swoop down and reclaim the house at any moment. But the house was ramshackle, and I couldn't help but wonder if setting this place up as a residency for artists was a cheap tax write-off, a way of using a house that was clearly too rundown for the holiday cottage market. Various outbuildings seemed to be in the process of reverting to nature, so covered in vines I could barely make out the brickwork. The house, though, seemed to be reasonably watertight, albeit dusty and stinking of must. As Jack buried himself in trying to sort out the water, the ancient heating system and the electrics, I wandered from room to room on the upper floor, throwing open shutters, opening windows and trying to air out the rooms. The master bedroom, at least, seemed habitable, with recently changed bedclothes awaiting our arrival, but it was the small room at the back, that intrigued me. It looked out straight into the darkest part of the forest, as if the trees were crowding in for a closer look at the strange creatures who had come to reclaim the house from the woods.

After making sure there was at least hot water, Jack made some excuse about getting back to the arts centre, and went off and left me, alone in the house, to sort out the unpacking and generally making the place homely. Well, at least I didn't have to deal with the stares in Marlborough. I did the best I could in the kitchen, rinsing everything to clear out the dust, then returned upstairs, where it felt less damp, at least. After I'd arranged Jack's clothes to try and fill out the wardrobes, I padded through, back into the spare bedroom and again stared out the window into the woods, feeling distinctly like someone was watching me. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, just unusual. Oddly, though our flat in Bloomsbury backed out onto private gardens that we shared with at least a dozen other buildings, I never had quite the sense of being under observation that I had in that bedroom, staring into the dark depths of the forest. Now that Jack had left, the silence in the house seemed almost overpowering, but as I leaned out the window, I realised that the woods were absolutely alive with birdsong.

I dug in my own baggage until I found my laptop, and set it up on the desk in the spare room, then went back through Jack's things until I found the cheap travel microphone he often used to tape his talks. Lowering the cable out the window, I managed to hook it over the branch of a nearby chestnut, and opened up ProTools to record the almost musical symphony of bird song and chatter. Almost immediately, a blackbird hopped onto the branch to investigate the wriggling black cable it must have hoped was some kind of giant worm. Puffing itself up, it let out its distinctive call two or three times, then gave up, unimpressed and flew off. I pulled the microphone back in, hoping it hadn't been damaged by the quick pecks, then sat down with my digital editor, listening back to the birdsong in all its gorgeous clarity, then copying it to carve it up, slice at it and rearrange it into its component phrases, stretching and pitch-shifting them to highlight the melody.

The day got completely away from me, sitting in that haunted-feeling little room, my back to the door, looking out the window into the woods, working on this odd track based on birdcalls. I set up some soft-synths and created this sparse electronic soundscape, highlighting and harmonising with the bird-calls, then wove the whole thing into a minimal beat. The drums didn't quite work - I knew I'd have to rip them out and redo them once I got back to London, but I needed something to keep the pace, slow, not quite dance music, but a rolling, fast walking pace

When Jack returned, he scared the shit out of me. I had got so used to the feeling of being watched by the woods, that his sudden appearance, reflected in the glass of the upper window, startled me badly. I played him the new track, and he listened intently, but then he shook his head long-sufferingly.

"I don't know why you keep recording these little sound-sculptures if you don't plan on doing anything with them. You should submit this to the Arts Council, submit it to Fat Cat Records, just bloody do something with it, instead of hiding yourself away like a weird electronic nun."

"I do them because they're beautiful," I tried to explain, but Jack rolled his eyes and retreated back downstairs, telling me that he'd picked up groceries at Waitrose on the way back. Groceries that I, of course, was expected to sort out, put away or turn into dinner while he slumped in the cool, stone-floored sitting room with a refreshing glass of whisky and ginger, but that was par for the course, really.

We had a nice evening together, but he left again, early the next morning, to finish setting up his exhibition, leaving me alone in the echoing house. I had definitely decided it was haunted, now. Things that I left on the counter had wandered down into the sink, and doors seemed to open and close of their own accord, not even in synch with the sudden gusts of breeze that blew down off the chalk uplands. Locking up as best I could, though the kitchen door didn't even seem to have a key, just a latch, I went out for a walk, along the ancient trackway at the foot of the downs, pulling me deep into the woods. The silence unnerved me - but the brief bursts of noise, as the wind shook the trees' leaves, or a sudden rise of a flock of birds, scattered by my presence, they caught me by surprise.

By late afternoon, Jack had still not returned. Was he just going to leave me in this house, all alone, to amuse myself? This was not my idea of a nice break. I went back upstairs and worked on my track some more, but I was itching for the internet - I wanted to check the Loophole, and maybe dig through some sound libraries, trying to identify some of the less distinct birdcalls on my recordings. By the time Jack finally returned from Marlborough, I was distinctly bored and cranky, sulking through dinner. I missed London, I missed people, and the noise - and most of all, the bloody internet.

By Tuesday morning, I'd had enough. I got a ride into town with Jack to check my email, then manufactured a crisis at work which needed my immediate attention, collected my things and got a lift to Swindon to make my way home. Rural living was clearly not for me, and I breathed a distinct sigh of relief as the train slid along the tracks underneath the Westway, and finally deposited me back in Paddington Station.

London was so disorienting after the county, the narrow streets, jam-packed with people, the buzz, the hum, the roar of the traffic. It was so much hotter than the country, during that endless, sweltering summer, the heat bouncing back off the buildings and the pavement. But losing myself in the crowds, the throb of humanity, thousands of people, of every colour, from every nation on earth, I felt energised and alive in a way that I'd felt like I was suffocating back in Wiltshire. It was like the forest in Sleeping Beauty, I decided, full of thorny briars to wrap round you while you slept and trap you and keep you, sleeping in the wild. I wanted London, dirty, ugly, shiny, exciting London - no, I *needed* London.

Our flat seemed wilted, the air stale, so I opened all the windows and went round tidying the rubble that Jack had left in his flurry of last-minute packing. Apart from anything else, the flat was all mine for the next six months. I couldn't even remember the last time I lived by myself - if I ever even had. I'd spent half my life trying to fit into the nooks and crannies of Jack's flat. Now, finally I could make my own stamp on the place - maybe clean out the second bedroom now that all his artwork was out of storage and up at the arts centre, and build a proper studio in there.

My song! My new song! I had the sudden urge to listen to it, so I dug my laptop out of my baggage and hooked it up to the speakers in the nest of my desk. Turning it up loud, since Jack wasn't there to complain, I blasted it aloud, pleased that it still sounded just as good as it had in the ancient overgrown cottage, in fact, perhaps it sounded even better, on decent speakers, bouncing off the concrete walls of our London flat. My first instinct was to post it to the Loophole, see what everyone made of it, so bursting with pride, I found the modem, connected it up and uploaded the MP3 to my MySpace.

Logging back onto The Loophole, my heart felt really warm, seeing Allen's familiar Loophole logo at the top of the page, the reassuring format of black on white text. How were there so many new threads? I'd only been away a weekend. Alone in the country, without an internet connection, I had hoped that maybe I could kick this internet habit, but after clicking on two threads, I was hooked again. God, I missed it so much.

 

UK TICKETS ON SALE NOW!!!! shouted the thread at the top of the page. Shit - how had they gone on sale while I was in the country? With the new online ticketing system, the first Earl's Court gig had sold out in twenty minutes, and the second one in ten. Manchester, Newcastle, Glasgow and Cardiff had all sold out - that left only Nottingham or Aberdeen. Damn. Maybe I could get a ride to Aberdeen with CryingMinotaur if I took the train up to Glasgow? Then again, I could start the whole round of posting plaintive begs for spare tickets on the W.A.S.T.E. board - or if all else failed, resort to a tout outside the tube station.

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can't believe I missed the ticket sale. Did anyone get a spare ticket for the London shows?
> 
> **BearHunt** : sorry, I had a spare, but I've already sold it to someone on ateaseweb
> 
> **KidAdie** : hey, you're back! How was Wiltshire? We thought you'd be eaten by bears.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Fucking awful. I missed London. The smell of the Thames.
> 
> **KidAdie** : ugh, in this weather? u crazy, girl!
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i think one of my mates at school had an extra ticket? i'll ask tomorrow at lunch
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Thanks, Telexie, I appreciate it. What else have I missed?
> 
> **Worrywort** : They put a new set of MP3s up on Digital Landfill. MizzTing is up there now and so is CryingMinotaur
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh, I'm so pleased! congratulations, guys! Loophole producers gonna take over the world!
> 
> **KidAdie** : I got a new gig! I'm gonna be spinning in Brixton as DJ Atom next weekend. If I do well, it might lead to a regular thing. Please please please Eyesore can you send me a 320 of your track so I can play it out?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I've got a new track that's even better now, m8! Where are you playing? I might come down.
> 
> **KidAdie** : really? You'd come down to Brixton? that'd be SICK! I'm spinning early doors - after months of begging Khama he finally listened to my mixtape and said I could play. My first proper gig - it's a pretty big deal.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's your first gig? Congratulations, Adie! That's so exciting. Definitely coming down for that. Jack is gonna be out in Wiltshire for the next six months and I've got to find things to do to keep me from getting lonely and bored
> 
> **CokeBaby** : the US tour has been so cool! You missed some great show reports. I think there's still a couple of live recordings up on SoulSeek though. Oh, and StockholmSyndrome met the band in LA! It was so funny, he actually asked Thom and Jonny if they knew who SleepFuriously was
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That was very naughty!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : (Do they know, though?)
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : Jonny just said "he's a very bad man." And then he started laughing like a little girl. he has the weirdest laugh ever.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : i still reckon it's stanley. the spelling is the giveaway
> 
> **Windowlicker** : it's Plank, it's totally Plank. he posted something about thom's guitar setup the other day, it's got to be Plank
> 
> **KidAdie** : it's not, it's someone from w.a.s.t.e playing with us
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : but he's on tour with them. he's only posting during american time now!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Alright, enough. Sleep Furiously is our little mystery now. Leave the poor bloke alone, he'll tell us if he wants.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh and if anyone sees any tickets going for Earl's Court, let me know. I don't care if they're floor or even rubbish seats, I just want to get in.
> 
> **KidAdie** : Eyesore, before you disappear, your new tune is SICK. can I remix it? i just wanna add a more bangin' kick drum and do some work on the bass, mix it a bit higher. can I have the stems?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : OMG, that'd be amazing, Adie!  Yes, what a brilliant idea. I'd love to hear what you do with it. PM me your email address and I'll send you over a link.

 

I logged onto the Private Messages inbox to wait for Adie's email, but SleepFuriously had already beaten him to it.

 

> **SleepFuriously** : look, don't worry about earl's court. i'll make sure you get a ticket and a pass and everything. it's all sorted
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Furious, are you sure? I mean, that's lovely of you to offer, but those tickets are not cheap
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you'll be on the guest list. it's fine. i kinda owe you for all the help you've given me with cubase. it's my pleasure
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Furious, look. I've told you the truth about who I am. Please be honest with me. Do you work for Radiohead?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : um, yeah
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Are you on tour with them right now?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yep. 
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Why are you on the forum? I'm not complaining, I'm just curious.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : everyone checks the forums during boring stretches on the bus to get an idea of what the shows were like for the punters, take the temperature of the fans, how the stage show worked and everything. I like the loophole coz it's the most music-oriented. it's not just fangirl shit about the band's hair - no offence - or even whether the performance and song selection was good, but people will talk whether the sound was good, whether the lighting worked, about whether the mix was good or bad, not enough bass or too much backwash from the stage monitors. it's really useful for the whole crew
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I wouldn't have thought you had the time!
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : come on, you've been on tour. people always think that touring is so exciting but it's long stretches of doing absolutely fuck all waiting for something to happen
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I guess, yeah. I had forgotten. You've brought up a lot of old memories for me, talking over old times, 2 Too Many and all that. I had forgotten how much I loved it, how much I loved music and performing. So I owe you for that, as well.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i'm glad. your tracks really are good. the new one is the best yet. there's a real sense of place in it. it doesn't sound like london, like your other tracks do. i can hear the forest in it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You are too sweet, Furious.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i mean it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh god, I'm blushing now. Look, are you going to come to the meet-up at Earl's Court? You really should say hello and put a stop to all the rumours
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i can't. i'll be working. besides, i think the rumours are funny
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Jonny's right, you are a very bad man.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ha hahahah Jonny's always right. don't tell him i said that.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : wait, so you *know* him? That's why you were asking for him that first night?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : yeah, he's always on the internet, the phone at his house is engaged for hours at a stretch. it's sometimes easier to get him on a forum than on the phone. but i'm glad it was you that answered my question in the end.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Me too, I guess. God, I'm sorry I shouted at you and treated you like an abject fanboy. 
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's alright, it was funny actually. i liked the balls of it. well, i guess metaphorical balls in your case ha ha
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Are you not even curious to meet me? I mean, I'm curious as all hell about you. It's weird, that I talk to you all the time, but we've never met. 
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : of course i'm curious. but also a bit scared. it's kinda complicated?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I guess it *is* really strange. We might ruin things by meeting.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ruin what things?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, forget it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i could... well... hmmm.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : no, it's a dumb idea
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : spit it out, Furious
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : i could get you a pass for the aftershow. and i could say hello there - but the band will all be there and you said you didn't want to meet anyone. oh, forget it. bad idea.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Yeah, very bad idea.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : forget i offered. it was v v presumptuous of me
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But...
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : But what?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't know. I'm torn. I do want to meet you, but at the same time...
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's weird meeting people off the internet, isn't it?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it's not at all. It's fine. I'm going to meet Adie and go to his gig, and I'm really excited about it, but, you know, Adie is just a kid.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : and i'm not? i might be in my 30s but i don't feel like i'm anything but just a kid
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, it's not that, it's... argh. Complicated.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : is it the radiohead thing? don't be intimidated by that. honestly. you wouldn't be so in awe if you saw everyone padding about the tourbus in underpants all the time
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But i kind of don't want to lose that sense of awe. And I don't want to lose that sense of... oh god this is embarrassing to explain.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : don't start getting weird on me
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Things are already weird. This whole thing is weird. Ha ha, Christ, Allen keeps teasing me, he keeps saying that you have some kind of internet crush on me, the way you always pop up on every thread I post on.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oops. so you noticed.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : is this a thing, then?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : uuuuhhhh... kinda?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : An internet crush kinda thing?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : like you said, it's kinda complicated
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What kind of complicated?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : the kind of complicated where i'm really scared you're gong to tell me, fuck off you creepy weirdo, i don't want to meet up with you ever, piss off, stop sending me dm's?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No. I wouldn't say that. Not to you.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : phew. ok. i feel so stupid about it. i don't wanna be *that guy*. ever. but it's complicated. crushes are complicated. attraction is complicated. one day you're a bloke, a really helpful and intelligent bloke who knows everything about synths ever. the next day you're a girl - and a beautiful girl, at that - and then a week later you turn out to be the girl off the telly that i had a massive crush on when i was at college. it's complicated!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : It's complicated for me, too. Because, for me, this is the kind of complicated where I'm worried that I might be encouraging you, because I kinda like it. The attention.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh? you do?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : And this is where I tell you that I'm worried that I might actually feel the same way. With the crushing.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : really.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Whatever way this is. Because, like, what even *is* this? Flirtation? Attention-seeking? A simple prop to occupy your time?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ha! no, no, don't get the wrong idea. this is what i don't want, you getting suspicious of me. this is hard, cause i'm not *like* this. i don't... like, it's really hard for me to feel attracted to someone. genuinely attracted to them. i don't go around just letching on women because, for me, i have to really trust someone, in order to want to... to be tempted to...
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : To what?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : fuck! what am i saying?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Look, I'm married.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : and i have a girlfriend. this isn't what it looks like.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But you are such a flirt.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : and you're a complete tease.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : This isn't real. This can't ever be real. But Allen is right. MizzTing is right. We do flirt on the forum. And I *like* flirting with you. I like *you*. And I don't want to lose that.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : do we have to lose that? by meeting?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : if we don't meet IRL, then everything just stays potential. Maybe we meet and it ruins everything. You find out that I'm old and not that cute, perky pink-haired 17 year old rave chick any more. I find out that you're a sweaty, greasy roadie with a beer belly and a balding ponytail.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : hahaha, i'm not. i promise. and i'm relieved you're not a 17 year old with pink hair any more. that hair was ridiculous. worse than blond hair extensions, which is really saying something
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But that's the other option? What if we meet, and we really hit it off?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but i hope we do hit it off
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : But what if this has the danger of becoming real? What if an internet crush becomes an IRL, marriage-threatening crush? This is fun, and safe, and wonderful right now. Because it's just a game. It's just fun. What if we met, and it stopped being a fun game, and became something... *real*? But either of those options are terrifying to me. I don't know that I want to risk it.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : it's like shroedinger's crush. meeting would be like opening the box. until we open the box, the crush is both alive and dead, both options are equally valid and possible.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : see, Furious, it's when you say things like that, I just...
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : you think i'm bonkers, you think i should have a tin hat?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, I go weak in the knees at how clever and perceptive and creative you are.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : maybe we should get offline and pretend we never had this conversation.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : maybe.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : but i still want you to come to earl's court. i still want you to have that. i want you to enjoy that, because i want you to be happy and i know how happy the music would make you
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : See, I want to meet you because you *understand* that. You are such a beautiful person, Furious. Don't let anyone else ever tell you otherwise.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy goes clubbing with Kid Adie from the forum - with whom she has been exchanging remixes - and finds a kindred spirit.
> 
> Adie has a lot of friends in the South London music scene - some of whom express an interest in the weird music the pair have been making together, and are interested in putting it out on their newly formed label.

The music flowed out of me. It was all I knew how to do, with this weird, stilted, impossible emotion. How could I have such a crush on someone I'd never met, who I'd never even seen a photograph of? It was impossible. He was just words on a page. But such kind words, and such clever words. I put on Hail To The Thief, but Thom's voice seemed to be singing straight to me, accusing me of whatever it was I was feeling for SleepFuriously: _just cause you feel it, doesn't mean it's real._ I switched the stereo off, and sat down at the computer and switched my sequencer on. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. It was just because Jack was so far away, and being so impossible lately. And SleepFuriously was just a kind voice in the dark, onto whom I'd chosen to project all my loneliness and frustration.

I slammed my fingers into the keyboard, the pre-loaded orchestral strings stabbing out my longing and pain. I played it again, and looped it, then slowly started to sketch in drums, bass, whooping synth arrangements underneath it, until all my emotions were laid out in a tangled heap. For days, I worked on it, shaping the chaos into something beautiful, then contrasting the beauty with waves of anger and frustration underneath.

After mixing everything down to MP3 and burning it to a CD to listen to on the Tube, I was nearly late meeting Adie in Brixton, skipping up the steps, blinking, into the late summer sun. As I waited outside the station, a strange man came up to me and started shouting in my face, trying to touch me. I recoiled, but he kept following me, shouting at me, calling me a black bitch and a whore. Christ, I hated the Tube and I hated Brixton Station in particular, as some kind of magnet for all the crazies in South London. I wanted to run away, to flee back to the train, when suddenly an angel stepped between us. "Back off, man, she doesn't want to talk to you, leave her alone. Come on, Lucy. Quick, take my hand, this way."

Too disoriented to protest, I let the angel lead me off down the street, away from the shouting man and towards the market. As we rounded the corner, I dared to look up into his face. He was a tall, lanky youth of about 20, with that sort of ranginess from a late growth spurt. And he was beautiful. There was no other word for him. Soft,  latte-coloured skin, wide, African lips, high cheekbones, lightly dusted with freckles (I'd never seen a black kid with freckles before - I mean, my sister was pretty light-skinned but she didn't have _freckles_ ) eyes somewhere between hazel and gold, and short, unkempt, very curly hair a sort of coppery colour that reminded me of a renaissance painting. "You know my name. You must be Kid Adie."

"One and the same. Recognised you from your photo. You alright? That nasty old man not giving you too much trouble?"

"I'm getting rather used to that kind of thing, on the forum," I sighed.

"Come on, that's not the same though," Adie protested. "You know we're just kidding around."

"Adie, that's what you blokes never seem to get. When you get so much hassle, all the time, just for being a girl - it stops making a difference, whether it's a nasty old man on the street, or a bunch of lads who think they're kidding around on the internet. It gets too hard to tell the difference."

That caught him up short, as he seemed to ponder it, turning it over in his mind. "You know, I never thought about it that way. I guess... no. If you don't like it, I'll knock it on the head. I was just trying to give you a compliment... but you're right. When we're online, and you can't see me smiling, how are you supposed to tell the difference between a compliment coming from me, or hassle from someone like Pablo or that nasty old man?"

I smiled. He was pretty wise for such a young kid. "Zactly."

"Listen. I'll make it up to you. Shall we go get dinner before the gig? I can play you the remix I did of your track." His wide eyes and his diffident grin were so infectious I found myself agreeing. "We can get roti in the market, at my auntie's stall. Proper Trini food."

An older woman with waist-length dreadlocks eyed him balefully as we settled at a table inside the market. "What are you doing over this way, Adie? Come to cause trouble like your brother?"

"No, I've got a gig," Adie insisted disdainfully. "I don't mess with that postcode shit my brother does. I'm just here to play music. Please can we have two pumpkin curry roti, Auntie?"

"Humph," rejoined the woman, and disappeared back into the shop. I stared at Adie, as if convinced he, too, would disappear any moment, until she returned with our food. I tried to pull out my wallet, but she waved it away. "Put that away. Your money is no good here."

"Here, listen to this," Adie insisted, pulling out a pair of huge, closed-backed DJ headphones and plonking them on either side of my head before pulling a smart MP3 player out of his bag. "Tell me what you think," he demanded, flicking the on button, then started to wolf down his supper.

I raised the delicious smelling parcel of fried bread and pumpkin to my mouth, but the world melted away before I could take a single bite. The music... shimmered. It was my track alright, I could hear the synth line and the bird-like chirping, the burble of the 303 like a babbling brook, but he'd ripped out the rather ordinary 4/4 drumbeat I'd never been quite happy with and replaced it with this nervous, skittering beat that seemed to skate back and forth between both ears, as the massive booms of an 808 kick drum dropped down between cymbal chatter like overripe fruit. And the new bass - it was huge and deep, thick with dubby echo, wobbling slightly off-beat, the sub-bass frequencies practically oozing out of the headphones. I listened all the way to the end of the track, feeling Brixton Market melt away, then peeled the headphones off, blinking and disoriented in the early evening sun.

"Oh god, your face. You hate it, don't you?" He paused in his eating, looking more than slightly worried.

"No! Oh my god, no. It's just... I've never heard anything even remotely like this before. It's... it's incredible."

"You should hear it on a Funktion-One sound system with full bass response - well, you will tonight. It's decent, yeah? Proper proud of that one." I wanted to laugh. He spoke exactly like he wrote on the forum, half precise technical language and half South London patois, grinning his beautiful smile down at me. Those unbelievable freckles! They just seemed unreal.

"Wow, I can't imagine. No, really, Adie, I'm pleased with what you've done with it. Just surprised." Remembering that we were about to go clubbing, I stuffed the roti into my mouth to try and line my stomach. It was actually delicious, spicy and fresh, though the taste combination was unfamiliar, half Indian and half Caribbean. Sitting outside the shop, I could hear a weird soundclash between the lazy dub echoing out of the roti stall's kitchen and chattering techno bleeding out of a record shop a few doors down - it wasn't entirely unlike Adie's music, come to think of it. Tonight was definitely going to be an unfamiliar experience, it had been years since I had been clubbing, and I had no idea what to expect. But then again, wasn't that what I should be doing with my new-found freedom, pushing myself out of my comfort zones, and experiencing new things without Jack to drag me down and insist I go home once I was starting to enjoy myself?

"So if you really like it, why you keep staring at me like I knifed your grandmother?" He smiled slyly as he said it, but a teenager's insecurity didn't lurk that far underneath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was staring. It's just... you're not how I expected."

"What, you never seen a black kid with red hair and freckles before?" he teased, then laughed at the embarrassment on my face. I knew that defensive laugh, I had done it myself a thousand times, trying to explain away the mixture of different continents' features in my own face.

"To be honest, no."

"Yeah, well, I ain't heard many black girls talk as posh as you do, either. You sound like the fucking Queen." He smiled to show he was joking, and I found myself smiling back instead of bristling. It was the freckles, they made him look like a mischievous little boy.

"I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours," I suggested tentatively, as a kind of peace offering.

"My dad's second generation West Indian immigrant, Brixton born and bred, but my mum's from County Sligo, Ireland. I got my dad's looks and my mum's hair. Me and my brothers and sisters, we're like a box of Crayolas. All colours." He grinned proudly. "What about you? Who do you come from?"

I normally recoiled at that kind of question, but it was the first time I'd ever been asked it in solidarity, rather than some kind of invasive curiosity. Also, it was weird that he said _Who_ do you come from, not Where. The Where was obvious - we were both from South London. Who do you come from, who are your people... that was the kind of question a friend asked. "My Dad's Scottish. He's a teacher, that's why I speak so well. My Mum was originally from Zimbabwe. Or, rather, Rhodesia, as it was when she left. She was a political refugee of some kind during the Civil War - what they'd probably call an 'asylum seeker' these days. She doesn't like to talk about it much - raised me and my sister to be ' _more British than the British_.' Oh, how my Mum loves Britain. But I don't live in _Britain_. I have to live in England. And I don't know that _England_ loves two little brown girls who no one can ever be quite sure if they're black or white."

"Oh, my god, do I know that feeling." Adie rolled his hazel-gold eyes. "In school they called me Heinz, 52 Varieties. Like I was a dog. Choc Ice, the nasty kids call you - black on the outside, white on the inside. I might almost prefer that, coz the nicer ones, they try to dress it up, they're more subtle, the way they try to get at who they think you are, but it's just as vicious. All that bullshit about the Cricket Test..."

"What Cricket Test?" I asked nervously. I had heard Choc Ice before, from another girl at school, when I was a bit too good at Maths for her liking, but this kind of Cricket Test sounded downright ominous.

"Maybe girls don't get that, I dunno? But you know. Are you really _British_ enough for them? Ever? They call it British, but they mean England, don't they. If Zimbabwe played England at a cricket match, who would you support? Or if Trinidad played England, that's what they ask me."

"I... don't know. We never followed sport. My dad was more into studying insects as a hobby. He's a science teacher. I grew up liking geeky science stuff."

"Ain't about sports at all. It's a culture test. A race test. It's about trying to figure out where your loyalties _really_ lie. Are you English or are you something else? Something they don't like."

"But what kind of a question... what are you supposed to say, anyway? It's like asking, who do you like better, your mother or your father? What kind of a person asks such a question, anyway? What do you tell them?"

Adie grinned widely. "A-B-E. My mum is from Ireland, after all."

"Who are they?" I felt utterly perplexed.

"Come on - Anyone But England. British can mean all kinds of things. Scottish. Welsh. Asian. West Indian. English means only one thing, far as they're concerned. Something I ain't, and never gonna be." His smile crinkled mischievously and he laughed, a deep, infectious laugh, and I felt myself warming towards him. If I'd had a little brother, he'd probably have looked a lot like Adie. But I'd never had a brother - and my sister had been so girly that I'd grown up as my father's ersatz son. How odd, to have spent my entire life, feeling like my sister and I were a distinct race with only two members, and yet here was another of our tribe. "Are you done with your roti? We need to get a leg on. I gotta be in the club before the doors open if I'm first on!"

We walked over as the sun set, and I was surprised to see a queue gathering outside the venue. I had a sudden fear that I was getting old when I found myself looking at the girls, in their skin-baring clothes, kissing my teeth and thinking 'won't they catch their death of cold?' Adie just walked up to the bouncer and pointed out his name on the list. For a moment, the bouncer looked suspiciously at us, but Adie stood his ground and insisted I was his plus one, and we were inside. Low lights. The cool, dank air of a Brixton basement. Rows of bottles over the bar. It had been far, far too long since I was in a music venue like this. As I gawped around, taking in the black lights and the posters for upcoming club nights, Adie let out a whoop of joy and walked up to the DJ booth up by the far end of the room. He and a gaggle of young men started embracing and greeting one another with lots of fist-bumping and back-slapping and a half-joking shout of "DJ Atom in the house, smashin' you into molecules!" For a moment, I feared I would be left behind to fend for myself, but he called me over, and started proudly introducing me to all his mates.

I felt a million years older than everyone else in the room, but I was determined to have a good time, even if it meant acting like den mother for a gang of barely-out-of-their-teens boys. But then again, maybe I liked it, that sense of having little brothers. In the back of my head, I could hear Jack sneering at their oversized clothes and brutal haircuts, calling them "chavs" or whatever, but I liked Adie, I felt comfortable with him, though it was funny to hear the way he switched between talking to me in the clipped, technical language of a musician, then back to South London patter for the horseplay with his mates. He didn't just live awkwardly in the boundary between two worlds like I did, he seemed to thrive on the tension, slipping between roles effortlessly as he talked to his friends. There were a gang of them whose names I barely caught - Ollie, James, Steve, though with their birth names and their DJ names, I couldn't really keep track of them all. Ollie produced a bottle of rum, neat, and offered it round, but Adie shook his head. "Nah way, mate. Deadens your ear, cuts off the top frequencies of your hearing. I'll have a spliff a bit later on, but I want to be sharp for DJing."

"I've got some pills, too, for later, if you fancy..." Then suddenly Ollie's eyes glanced shiftily at me, and he shut up as if caught smoking by the teacher. Christ, they made me feel ancient. I sat down in the old leather sofa behind the DJ booth and pretended to shake a cane at them.

"Young man, I was dropping E's when you were in nappies," I laughed, crossing my arms like a schoolmarm before he shrugged and passed the bottle of rum to me.

The chatter grew louder, and I looked up to realise that the doors had opened and the room was starting to fill up. James - or perhaps it was Ollie, as they looked alike, dressed alike, and had almost exactly identical teenage pouts under matching baseball caps, apart from the fact that one appeared to be black and the other white - had taken over the decks and was playing more of that nervous, skittering music that Adie loved. 

"Horsepower Productions," Ollie offered when I tried to surreptitiously look over the decks to identify the track they were playing. "Deep shit, proper Yardcore."

"Not as sick as this Zed Bias remix of El-B," James disagreed, pulling out another slab of vinyl. "Drop this one next. The bass will mess wit your fuckin' mind."

"Do you know any of this music?" Adie asked, digging through his own records. "Are you bored senseless?" he teased, making me feel even older than I already did.

"No," I confessed. "But it's an adventure, right? I mean, the last time I was in a club, there was Acid House and there was Rave, and that was it. I'm fascinated. I don't think I've heard new club music that spun my head around and made me actually hear music in a different way - like this is doing - since, I dunno, since the first time I danced to proper Jungle in a railway arch near London Bridge. Oh god, don't look at me like that, you make me feel a million years old, you probably don't even remember Jungle."

James shook his head. "Nah, I'm just impressed a posh bird like you ever danced to Jungle. Old school music."

"Nah, she knows her shit, she's a producer, too," Adie announced, almost proudly.

"Nah, mate, Jungle's not Old Skool, that's shit like On A Ragga Tip," the other baseball cap twin informed me, deciding to give me a potted history of dance music over the past fifteen years in nervous, speedy patter. "Jungle grew out of Techno and Rave, but then the Hardcore end split off into Breakbeat, and Drum N Bass, then Drum N Bass splintered, and there was Garage, and there was 2-Step, but right now, the big thing is Grime, which mixes home-grown UK hip-hop wit' post-Reggae and Dancehall Riddims, but lately, 2-Step has started mutating and picking up bits of Dubstyle, and the deep electronic end of Dub and the slower remixes of 2-Step have started, like, swapping DNA, and they had a baby, and that baby is Dubstep, and Dubstep is what we do down here."

"You are so full of shit, Ollie," interrupted Steve, passing the bottle of rum round again. Steve seemed slightly older than the other two - or at least more worldly. "Garage didn't grow out of Drum N Bass, it grew out of House, that's the fuckin' joke, mate. Don't listen to him, Lucy, he doesn't know what he's talking about. I don't believe Khama lets him DJ here when he don't know jack - he don't even know Jack from Acid House!"

"Guys... who is this Khama you keep talking about?" I finally scraped up the courage to ask.

"Khama is, like... wizard sage deep mystic of bass vibrations."

"Khama is, like a bastard pipedream son of an East Indian guru and a West Indian voodoo queen..."

"Khama has this theory that, well, subatomic vibrations on the scale of really deep bass notes actually physically change the structure of the brain, and induce some kind of alpha-beta brainwave trance state while you are dancing to his music."

"Khama is some kind of Rastafari hippie..."

"Nah, man, Khama studied with Hari Krishnas in India, he's made his music an avatar of Shiva Dancing, creation and destruction held in opposite hands..."

"Khama is... man, what have you done with the spliff?"

"No, mate, you had it last." And the pair of them descended into squabbling, without realising that I had quietly stepped between them and relieved them of their drugs.

"These two kill me," Adie laughed. "They work at a record shop in Croydon, and they just do this all day long. They'll keep it up for hours, arguing like this, bantering back and forth."

"It's a musical education, mate," Steve flipped back, tapping the side of his head. "You'd have to go to college to pick up knowledge like this."

"So you just stand around talking about music, and you don't actually dance?" I teased. "Typical teenage boys." 

"I'm no teenager," Steve snorted. "I've been to Uni."

"Uni? You? What did you study?" I scoffed.

"Artificial intelligence. It's the future, you know, trans-humanism. Proper robotics stuff."

I did my best not to laugh. For all his cool, urban affectations, he seemed like a supreme geek, and really a bit of a trainspotter. Casting an eye out across the dance floor, I noticed that it was quickly filling up, though that row of young girls, still looking scandalously underdressed to me, had taken up residence in front of the DJ booth, and were making eyes at the huddle of boys clustered around the decks. "You guys could go down and ask those girls to dance, and get a snog and have the time of your lives, but instead you're up here, arguing over whether Garage grew out of House or Drum N Bass."

 A ruffle of protest went through the lads, but just as they were about to reassert their masculinity, another, slightly older man appeared at the door and started working his way towards the booth. "Oh my god, Ade, he's here."

"Of course he's here, I told you he would come," Adie announced proudly, peeling himself off the sofa and walking down the steps to shake hands with the tall, skinny, slightly gawky newcomer. The newcomer didn't look like a rock star; he had the bedroom pallor and bad posture of a producer that spent way too much time hunched over a laptop. "Guys, this is Kieran. These are my mates, Ollie, Steve, James, and this is Lucy, who I was telling you about." I smiled politely and shook hands, while Adie lowered his voice and practically quivered with hero worship. "Kieran has just been on tour with Radiohead," he whispered in an awestruck voice.

"How was it, mate?" Ollie enquired seriously, pushing his baseball cap back on his head and rubbing a nervous hand over his hair almost as if he were tugging his forelock.

"It's been good, a lot of fun," Kieran shrugged shyly, as if slightly embarrassed by his good fortune. "I'm not sure how I'm going down with the RAWK crowd, but some of the kids seemed to get into it. Is Khama about? I should say hello."

As he went over to greet the dreadlocked hippie who ran the club, and dumped his heavy canvas bag off in the corner behind the DJ booth, I pulled Adie aside. "How the hell do you know Four Tet? What kind of secret is that to hold out?"

Adie grinned, his eyes twinkling. "He went to school with my cousins. They were in bands together and stuff. Known him since I was a kid. He's been a big encouragement towards me making music."

"So I hear you've got a new remix for us tonight? Really excited to hear it," Kieran ventured as he returned, ruffling Adie's hair affectionately, as if he were a little brother.

"Yeah, it's an exclusive. One of Lucy's."

"Hardly mine any more. He's done so much to it, made it sound absolutely incredible."

Adie blossomed under the praise, straightening his back as Kieran sunk into the sofa next to me. "So come on, Kier, spill the gossip on Radiohead. Lucy's a big fan. What's Thom Yorke really like?" Another twinkle of his eyes, and a wink at me. "And what's their road crew like?"

"Their road crew?" Kieran blinked, surprised, and started to roll a fat spliff. "They're alright, I guess. Just really good people all round. Thom's an interesting fellow. Very intelligent, very perceptive. He's a smart guy."

"Lucy's got the biggest, fattest, juiciest crush on him in the world," Adie giggled, his tongue loosened by the incredibly strong weed he'd been hitting almost continually.

"Adie!" I protested, but Kieran merely laughed.

"I don't blame you. By the end of the tour, I think everyone ends up with half a crush on Thom. He's just like that. Such an irrepressible individual. A true original." Kieran's long, solemn face broke into a hesitant smile, as if the spliff was drawing him out of his shell into a kind of gentle stoner sociability.

I relaxed into the sofa and took another draw from the spliff. This was good stuff, completely unlike the manky weed that Luke occasionally produced. When I closed my eyes, I could feel the juddering, slippy basslines reaching right down to the bottom of my soul and pulling me back up out of myself. When I opened my eyes, I smiled and turned to the man by my side. "Do you dance, Kieran? Because none of these boys seem to."

"I dance," Adie protested. "I just have to DJ at the end of this record. Go on, then. Get on the floor. At least someone will dance during my set."

"Would you like to dance? I'd be happy to dance with you." Kieran's deep brown eyes warmed up his face when he smiled.

"Do you want a pill?" Ollie offered, pressing something small and unidentified into my hand. Without thinking, I raised it to my lips and swallowed it with a gulp of rum. This was madness, but who cared? The beat was insistent and I wanted to dance, to just lose myself in the pumping rhythm and sink down into the waves of bass.

"Kieran," shouted Adie, as the two of us made our way down to the floor, and Kieran turned around. "Cricket Test, Kier! India play South Africa - who do you choose?" Kieran rolled his eyes and flipped two fingers back towards the DJ booth, causing a stream of laughter from Adie. But Kieran just smiled and took it in his stride as we shuffled towards the mass of moving bodies swaying by the edge of the dance floor. His shy grin gave way to a manic gurning as he moved his body to the rhythm, in a kind of awkward groove that was actually quite endearing.

I danced, slowly at first, then with less and less inhibition, until finally I was springing about like a madwoman, the moves quickly coming back to me. Kieran clapped his hands and leapt up and down, grinning at me as we circled one another. Why had it been so long since I'd done this? Marriage, Jack, Bloomsbury, it all seemed to melt away under the overwhelming waves of bass. I lost Kieran after a few songs, drifting back to the inexorable pull of the DJ booth. I lost Ollie, I lost everyone I knew, but at least I could still see Adie's crop of gingery curls floating up above the DJ booth as he leaned over the decks, headphones propped over one ear as he lined up the next track, then loosed another barrage of weltering bass on the crowd. He was actually a really good DJ, not just playing track after random track like James had been, but building the tension and the momentum, slowly inching the BPM and the energy up, as more and more people found their way onto the dance floor. It was getting so crowded and I so hot, sticky with sweat, that I found myself envying the girls in their skimpy outfits, fanning themselves with flyers to stay cool.

Adie had a real gift - he mixed styles up a bit, without ever losing the thread. One minute he'd spin an old Garage anthem that had all the girls jumping up and shaking their hands at the sky, shouting for a rewind. Then the next minute, he played some deep electronic dub cut I'd never heard before, the bass pushing me backwards away from the speakers, followed shortly after by a snippet of a pop song - some weird acidic remix of a Sugababes track. And then, just at the right moment, when the crowd were ready and receptive, he looked up, caught my eye and grinned, and he dropped our track.

Oh Christ - he was right about the sound system. The bass which had made me simply melt, back in the cafe, felt like a physical wall of sensation, almost shaking me out of consciousness, as I realised I was coming up on the E, and the whole club seemed to fizzle off into the sky like the sparkling noises of the melody. It was perfect - I couldn't believe this was my music! I looked round desperately, wanting to shout to all my new friends, hey, listen to this amazing thing that Adie and I did! But the lads were nowhere near me - I could see that Kieran was back up at the DJ booth, whispering in Adie's ear and nodding his head in time with the shuddering kick drum. Then the bass boomed again, and I felt like my whole body exploded with happiness, spinning back into the dance.

I danced all night. It would hurt in the morning, but I didn't care, I just loved the music and the beat and the crowd and the whole thing. I danced all the way through Adie's set, and threw myself around to Khama, and then even after the closed closed, we danced down the street to an after hours club, and danced in an overcrowded back room to booming dub. And when that closed, we danced ourselves onto the night bus, and as the sun came up, I found myself on the floor of a record shop in Croydon, trying to dance between the counter and the shop window as we smoked spliffs, played records and drank cheap rum out of cracked plastic cups. I was in love with the music. Steve and Ollie kept dragging records out and popping them on the turntable for a few minutes, before Adie would pull the jack out and stick it into his MP3 to play another remix. Everyone was talking very fast, and very excitedly, mostly about our new song. I closed my eyes, swaying my hips back and forth to the music as the boys talked, all at once.

"Ade, this is really something. If no one else will put this out, we've got to. I've always wanted to start a record label, and it would be so easy to do it, from the shop."

"What, you'd put out our track? What, you and Ollie?"

"I'm not starting a label with you, Steve, you're full of shit! What did Kieran think of the track?"

"He loved it, mate, he loved it."

"Do you think he'll do us a remix? If we could get him, and maybe get Khama to do a remix, we'd be minted. We could sell it out the shop..."

"Khama would never do a remix of our track, you're smoking crack!"

"He might, you never know. He was really nice about my set tonight, we could ask him. But even if it were just Kieran, that'd be good for a pressing of a couple hundred pieces of vinyl, get it on iTunes, add digital distribution, it can't be that hard..."

"Ade, mate, that song is too good to let Steve fuck it up. You gotta try to get it on a proper label, get decent distribution..."

"Fuck that, Ollie, we could be a proper label if we got our hands on a track like that. We'd be made."

"What we gonna call it, then?"

"What?"

"The label."

"I dunno. Something futuristic, about, like, cyberspace and the internet, but also referencing our past - Croydon, UK Garage, Two-step."

"Cyberdub."

"Too much like fuckin' Cyberdog, don't want people getting us mixed up with weekending Camden trust fund crusties."

"Interstep."

"Fuckin' perfect. DJ Atom featuring Axiomatics, new track coming soon on Interstep Records. What you think, Adie?"

"I dunno. Look I trust you guys, you're my mates, I trust you a lot more than I'd trust some big London label I didn't know. But Lucy, what do you think? Lucy? Lucy!"

"I think I fucking love this bassline, and I want to marry this bassline."

"Ha ha, watch her go. Fuckin' 'ell, Adie, while you was fucking about on computers all day like a proper geek. How did you ever meet a bird like that?" 

"Stop being stupid, think big. We gotta make a video and have Lucy dancing like that in it, we'd sell a billion copies."

"Fuck yeah, have her dress up in a short skirt - in fact, fuck that. Stick her in a nice bikini, film her out on the beach..."

"Where the fuck are we gonna get a beach in Croydon?"

"I dunno. We could drive down to Brighton. Or do it in a club. But have her, dancing around like that - fuck, we could sell a truck load of the video right there."

"No! No way."

"What do you mean no?"

"I'm not doing that. In fact, I've got one condition if I'm doing it at all."

"Aw, come on, Lucy, it'd be amazing, think of how people would react! Here's this booming bass track, but it's this hot chick that's made it."

"No!" I opened my eyes and the room stopped spinning somewhat, but now it was my head that was spinning, Still, of this one thing I was sure. "I don't want my name, or my face on it."

"But Luce," Adie protested. "Remember what you were saying, back on the forum, about how it's really important for young girls - girls like Princess Telex - to have role models, to see other girls doing stuff like producing records?"

I shook my head resolutely. "So you think it's gonna be good for them to see me dancing around in a fucking bikini? No fucking way. I'm Axiomatics or I'm nothing"

Adie sighed deeply and I could see him look back and forth between me and his mates, but then he nodded resolutely and I could see he was gonna get my back. "No, Lucy's right. That's not what this track is about, it's not fuckin' bootie bass. You should just put it out all mysterious, like those old house white labels, where all you get is name and title. Atom and Axiomatics. Or Axiomatics and Atom? I dunno, which sounds better."

"Axiom N Atom, that sounds fuckin' sick. Well sci-fi. Like Oxide & Neutrino. Proper old school."

"Oxide & Neutrino weren't Old School, Ollie, they were fuckin' Garage, you utter tosser!"

"I didn't mean Old School like the genre that time, I meant, like classic, you fuckin' muppet."

As Ollie and Steve fell to arguing, Adie and I stared at one another, like two shell-shocked animals caught in a crossfire. "Are we really gonna do this?"

"Are you fucking kidding? Please, Lucy. I've been dreaming of this my whole fucking life."

I thought to myself, I'm 28 years old. About to turn 29. I am way too old to be starting this pop star career again for the second time. But seeing the expression of hunger on Adie's face, and the excitement in Ollie and Steve's eyes, I shut my mouth, nodded, and left Croydon just as the trains started up again, with a handshake record deal for our first single.

Ignoring the blinking ansaphone and the missed calls on my mobile from Jack, I went straight home and collapsed into bed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy starts leading a double life as the track she released anonymously with Adie takes off on pirate radio, and becomes an underground hit.
> 
> But all the time apart - not to mention the flirtation with Furious the mysterious roadie - is taking a toll on her marriage, which starts to collapse under the strain.

In the end, I didn't tell Jack. When he finally rang, he was so full of tiny complaints about the gallery, about his show, about the incompetent management of the art centre, about the impossible neighbours, the early morning dawn chorus of birds and lowing cattle that woke him up, etc. etc. etc. that I never got the words in. Fine, it would be my secret, mine and Adie's. And the Loophole's.

"Guys, this is a solemn secret," I insisted on the private members-only part of the forum, then went through the back end of the database and carefully scrubbed and googleproofed every mention that Axiomatics might be in any way connected to a poster named LonelyIsAnEyesore, or a girl named Lucy.

SleepFuriously was delighted, for both me and Adie. No, I didn't really want to think about what it meant, that I'd told Furious when I hadn't told my own husband. But with Adie's permission, I'd sent over an MP3 of the final mix, with my melody and Adie's insane bass fighting it out. And he loved it - he was as supportive and enthusiastic as I could possibly have wanted. No pressure, no slight edge of passive aggressive nastiness tearing me down, just his effusive excitement and unwavering belief that whatever happened, it would be great.

We spoke almost every day - I had given him my private email, to spare Allen's servers, and my AIM handle, so we could chat, late at night for me, but in the dead part of the evening for him, between setup and soundcheck. I found myself saving all my little bits of news for him, the silly titbits I should really have been saving for Jack, but Jack just wasn't interested. Furious, however, delighted when I told him that we'd had the test pressings back, and they sounded amazing, or that the white labels had gone off to select DJs around the country.

I could hardly believe that any of it was happening. Not even when the remixes came back - Khama's deep, booming, almost soulful, and Kieran's, bright and sparkling and ecstatic, like it had been dipped in glitter. It was odd how Khama and Kieran seemed to switch personalities in their music. Khama, the laughing, dreadlocked hippie trickster, his remix was as solemn and stately and almost mystical as something that would be played in a church. But Kieran, quiet, serious Kieran who danced like a village vicar at a disco - his music burbled and swirled like a playful babbling brook glinting in the sunlight.

And I really didn't believe it when the record started selling, at first just from the little shop in Croydon, but then quickly, spreading like wildfire, orders started coming in from speciality dance label shops all about the country. And then, when the newly formed Interstep Records managed to get it on iTunes, it started selling by the bucketload.

We had somehow accidentally hit on a winner. The anonymity intrigued people. In a world completely exposed and dissected by Big Brother and Pop Idol and endless PR campaigns, the idea of a self contained record by people who didn't want to be known somehow captured people's imaginations. And that crazy, tense, wobbling dance music that Adie and Steve and Ollie were all mad for, it somehow caught a mood during the politically tense autumn as it settled in that the war in Iraq was not ending, and the political scandals grew deeper.

The first inkling that it was going to be big was when I was in a little hipster boutique on Brick Lane, trying to buy a new outfit to go dancing in. Adie was DJ-ing regularly now, both at little Interstep nights, and proper, big clubs, and I often went along to provide moral support - or just neck the rider and dance like a loon. The kind of clothes that would do for trendy art openings in Whitechapel would just not do for sweaty clubs in Brixton or Shoreditch. If I'd once looked askance at the revealing outfits the girls wore, I now understood how hot one got, dancing for six hours straight. As I tried to squeeze myself into a tube-like dress, I heard a familiar bassline oozing out of the loudspeakers. I stuck my head out of the dressing room and looked about, as if I were expecting Adie to pop out of nowhere and shout "april fool!" But there was nothing but a bored-looking shop assistant reading i-D at the register.

"Are you playing this?" I asked disbelievingly.

"What?" asked the girl, barely glancing up.

"The music."

"It's just the radio," she shrugged, and went back to the magazine.

"What station?" I demanded, as those odd birdcall whoops that I'd recorded in that cottage in Wiltshire echoed through the square box of the boutique.

"I dunno. Rinse FM?"

"Oh my god." Reaching in my bag, I pulled out my phone and dialled Adie's number. "Adie, turn on Rinse FM, now."

"What? Why? I only just woke up, what the fuck..."

"Just shut up and do it!" I practically howled down the phone.

"Oh. My. God." I don't know if it was him that started squealing or me, but suddenly we were both squealing down the phone and I was jumping up and down in my ridiculously scanty dress.

"Is everything alright in there?" the shop girl called.

"Fine! yes! I'll take it!"

I wasn't just leading a double life any more. I was leading a triple life. Or maybe a quadruple life. There was the anonymous pop star whose weird, wobbly anthem was tearing up dance floors all over London. There was the ashen-faced zombie who hauled herself into work in Canary Wharf three days a week, feeling her database and her career slipping further away from her with every night of missed sleep. There was the distracted wife who somehow made an apologetic phone call every Thursday night explaining why she couldn't come out to Wiltshire that weekend, omitting the bit about how she and a beautiful young man nearly a decade younger than herself had been booked to DJ at some nightclub in Hoxton. And there was the amateur producer who still somehow found the time to give advice about compression and filter envelopes, and occasionally gossip about Radiohead on the internet.

And the only person who knew who all of those people were, and how they fitted together, was some greasy roadie on tour with Radiohead, a thousand miles away, in California, or Texas, or wherever Furious was that week - and I didn't even know his real name, or what he looked like, or how on earth to explain why it was that I needed to talk to him every day, just to keep a handle on who the hell I was.

Something had to break. I couldn't keep juggling lives like this much longer. Adie and I were already working on a follow-up single, based on that first, haunting tune that I'd posted to the Loophole, but I was almost too frightened to touch my DAW any more. My work was slipping. I had already made one crucial error, dumping a whole table of my database without realising it was still in use - though fortunately I was able to recover most of it from backup and shrugged it off as a computer glitch. But my marriage, that wasn't something I could put off any longer.

And so the one weekend that Adie was away, DJing off in Bristol, I packed up a few changes of clothes - proper, dignified country clothes, not my skimpy clubbing outfits - and dragged myself onto the train for Swindon. Had it really been a month since I'd last seen Jack? How could so much change in so little time? It was definitely autumn now, the leaves changing colour in the chilly October winds. But Jack was still the same husband I'd left on the train platform, though his hair was a big shaggier and his skin a bit more tanned. The country seemed to suit him; he'd lost weight and picked up a kind of bounding energy. But me? I just felt shattered and wanted to sleep, my constitution worn down from the late nights and my brain juddering from ecstasy comedown.

"You look well," he told me, though it was obviously a lie, and swept me up in his embrace. Oh, right. Sex. Well, there was that, I thought, feeling my body responding to the physical presence of his with a yearning that surprised me.

"So do you," I told him, reaching up and ruffling his hair affectionately.

"I know, it's too long. Haven't found a decent barber in this town."

"No, I like it." I was filled, suddenly, with overwhelming love for my husband. He wasn't so bad after all. Maybe absence did make the heart grow fond.

"Right, so I thought we'd drop in at the arts centre on the way back, so I could show you what I've done..."

I smiled up at him naughtily from under my hair. "Come on, Jack. Sod it, let's just go back to the house and screw like bunnies."

Conflicting emotions flickered across his face for a few moments. I'd actually shocked and surprised him, me, his little wife he thought he knew so well. But there was that edge of pride and ego - he did actually want to drop by the gallery and strut around like cock of the walk more than he wanted to have actual, real, dirty sex. That surprised me. But finally he shrugged and put the car in gear. "Oh, sod it. You're right. It's been far too long, come on, let's go."

 

\-----

 

I woke the next morning, thinking "this could actually still work." We had a long, luxurious breakfast in bed, followed by another session of love-making, then a long, luxurious bath, and then we lazed about in the garden in the late Autumn sun, reading the Saturday Guardian. Jack might not be perfect, but he was familiar. We fit together, even the way he swung his long legs into my lap for a toe-rub as he read the Money section and I read the Guide and then we squabbled dispassionately over the Review. I didn't tell Jack, but there was a big preview in the Guide, talking about Khama and his club in Brixton, and another new club called FWD and the exciting new bass music coming out of South London. How on earth had they got wind of it already? The internet seemed to be vastly compacting the length of time between the invention of a new scene or a new sound, and that crossover moment that even the mainstream press got hold of it. I found myself suddenly longing for a conversation with SleepFuriously or TalkShowHost - or even Steve from Interstep, about how the internet was changing culture, and accelerating that change. In another lifetime, it might have been the sort of conversation I'd have shared with Jack, but he didn't seem that interested, sniggering over obscure literary side-snipes in the letters page of the Review.

Our peace lasted exactly as long as the sun did. Clouds gathered across the china blue Wiltshire sky as he informed me that he'd actually made plans to go into the Gallery for a meeting that afternoon, followed by a working dinner I would be expected to attend, with various staff of the Arts Centre, and members of the Arts Council.

"Oh come off it," I sighed, half joking. "You can't expect me to have to deal with Mary Worthington even out on holiday in Wiltshire."

Jack's face darkened, and rain started to splatter across the canvas of our deckchairs, sending us scrambling for the safety of the kitchen. "Mary Worthington has been incredibly good to me, and has taken a genuine personal interest in my career. The least you could do is appear, and try to be polite to her, through a casual supper."

"Wait, she's here?" I stuttered awkwardly. "I was trying to make a joke."

"It's not a joking matter," Jack muttered. "She has a country house in Devizes. Didn't you know?"

Actually, that was news to me. And explained Jack's sudden new passion for Wiltshire. No, stop it, don't be uncharitable. Try to be supportive. Show the same care in your marriage that you would wish to receive. That was what SleepFuriously had told me. And suddenly, just at the thought of him, I ached for him. It was like a physical withdrawal, my fingers twitching for the internet, almost as bad as when I'd given up smoking. No, come on, this was ridiculous. You can survive four days without the internet, without the Loophole, without Radiohead... but without Furious? I wasn't sure I could do it.

But still, I sifted through my sensible country clothes, found a dress that was, I hoped, appropriate, and dressed for dinner. No, fuck it. In this backwater English town, people were going to stare at me no matter what I wore. So I was dressing to please myself and I wanted to wear a dress that showed off my curves. It was one thing that clubbing had taught me, a pride in my body, pride in the way it moved, pride in the way it looked, and pride in the way that it inspired admiring glances from both men and women. The old Jack, the man I'd once married, he'd have been proud to go out with me dressed like this. But this Jack, slightly frumpy middle aged Jack in his slurry coloured tweed jacket, his trousers tucked into wellington boots for the walk down the lane back towards the car, he frowned at my dress and my inappropriate shoes, though he said nothing. And then I saw the mud. Right, OK, fine. I would swap the shoes for wellies, at least until we got to Marlborough.

Oh my god, was I overdressed for the restaurant, especially when we arrived early, and Mary Worthington texted to say she was delayed behind a tractor on a B-road coming up to the A4, and we had to go and wait in a pub down the road. It was nice architecture, at least, an old coaching inn with lovely antique warped wooden roof beams and uneven floors that reminded me of Adie's crazy wobbling basslines, though it had clearly seen better days. I was tempted to take a photo and text it to him now that I had half a bar's worth of reception on my mobile, but resisted the urge. The locals, however, clearly did not entirely approve of me and my outlandish outfit. The women tutted, the men just stared, and I felt suddenly very exposed. Well, at least it was my damn dress they were staring at this time, and not the colour of my skin.

Finally, Mary Worthington arrived, fragrant in a floral dress and matching cardigan, both below the knee, but Jack hadn't finished his pint, and the girls from the arts centre (and they were all girls, very serious, intellectual looking girls in chunky wooden jewellery and earthen coloured knitware) were still working on their glasses of white wine, so we stayed. Mary Worthington, however, found lots to disapprove of. The radio was tuned to a dance station, maybe even a pirate, which was gearing up for Saturday night by playing the usual mix of big American R&B and homegrown urban pop, mixed in with the occasional floorfilling anthem, inspiring a steady stream of complaint from her, and then Jack, as he got the idea and joined in her chorus of disapproval.

"It's just so terrible, the radio today, isn't it?" Mary Worthington ventured. "And to think, our license money pays for this."

"It's appalling, I know," Jack agreed, though I'd heard him singing along to this Beyonce track in the shower.

"No imagination at all, no sense of experimentation. Just this endless, mindless cookie cutter repetitive beat. It's so anaethsetising, so anodyne," Mary Worthinton insisted, nodding her head curtly.

"It's all just about money," one of the wooden bead girls agreed. "Lowest common denominator, to appeal to the masses."

"Come on, now, mustn't be Classist," chunky knitwear countered. "It's because it's all they're fed. I'm quite sure that the working classes could come to appreciate the finer points of avant-garde composition if they were exposed to it. Had proper instruction. I mean, we try at the arts centre, to offer a varied diet of music..."

I tried to tune them out, sucking at my gin and tonic, but as the synthesised bass of the Beyonce track gave way to the lurch of an all too familiar woozy sub-bass. No, dear god, please. Let it be something else. Let it be the new Dizzee Rascal track, let it be some crazy electro remix of Sugababes... Christ, no, it was. It was mine and Adie's track. In any other universe, this could have been a triumph. It would have been the perfect time to smile across the table at Jack, and nod my head at the speakers above us and say 'hey, remember that crazy track I wrote over the summer, that you thought I could really do something with? Well, me and my new mates... we did something with it alright!'

Mary Worthington made a face like a bulldog licking a lemon. "This... I mean, this is just shocking. This isn't even music. It's just repetitive beats, like a machine. For crying out loud, it's not even in tune. That bass, it makes me feel distinctly queasy."

I couldn't help myself. I saw red. To be honest, if we'd been sitting in the ICA and something that weird came on, she would have nodded her perfectly coiffed head and made some airy comment about transgressing the expectations of the tyranny of pitch. But because we were in a grotty working class pub in Wiltshire, listening to grotty black music on grotty, proletariat pirate radio, no, it was just shit.

"It's supposed to be that way," I tried to say carefully, but I found myself mumbling it into my drink apologetically.

"What?" Mary Worthington demanded. "What's supposed to be what way?"

"The bass. It's supposed to wobble like that. It's a deliberate statement, they do it with portamento and pitch bend. It's to prove that it's a human being making that sound, and not a machine, that it's not automated and pitch-corrected and autotuned to death. And they put it just slightly out of synch, and they move the accented rhythm to the third beat, to create a sense of tension. It comes out of Dub Reggae, that off-beat. That you expect it to come on the downbeat, but by pushing it just off-beat, it tricks the brain, makes it exciting," I explained, hearing Adie's and Ollie's excited explanations of the music they loved come rushing out of my mouth.

"Well, it doesn't sound exciting, it just sounds incorrect," Mary Worthington insisted, staring at me as if the furniture had just gone into revolt and started disagreeing with her. "It sounds ugly. It's shocking that they get away with it."

Jack cringed, casting me a desperate glance as if begging me to shut up, and suggested that we adjourn to the restaurant next door, but Chunky Knitwear looked at me carefully. "All great new art seems shocking, even ugly at first."

"They were talking about Impressionism, darling, not this hideous clattering noise," Mary Worthington intoned as she reached for her coat, and that was the end of it.

We managed not to fight until we got home, but then we blew up. I'd had the better part of a bottle of wine at dinner, and I was feeling distinctly spiky and on edge. I still hadn't told Jack about the track, but it wasn't so much his comments that had irked as the easy way he'd just rolled over and agreed with Mary Worthington, and not even thought to listen to what I'd said. Furious would had my back. Furious would have agreed with me - he loved the new generation of bass music - but even if he hadn't agreed with me, he would at least have listened to me, and heard out my arguments.

Walking into the kitchen, I moved straight from wine to whisky, pouring myself a large glass, forgetting that Jack was still relatively sober, as he'd had to drive us home. "You drink too much," he observed.

I merely snorted, thinking that if thought this was bad, he would absolutely have apoplexy at the amount that me and the boys got through at Plastic People or Mass or the End.

"I mean, it's bad enough that you embarrass me at dinner, first by turning up dressed like a tramp, and then by drinking yourself into a stupor. But to come home, and start on my very best whisky... it's disgusting."

"You're disgusting," I shot back, barely believing what was coming out of my mouth. "I hate your friends. I hate the arts council. I hate Wiltshire. I hate galleries and shows and sound art and I hate the wanky, pretentious, snobby things that come out of their mouths, but most of all, I hate the way you just swallow it all, tug your forelock and ask for more. What happened to the Jack Dunbar that told Charles Saatchi to take his million pound art collection and shove it? That he might collect all of Britain, but he could not collect you? What happened to that man, the man that I married? Because I don't see him any more. I just see Mary Worthington and she sticks her Arts Council grants in your mouth, and you just suck, suck, suck."

Jack stared back at me, open-mouthed. I had hit him, and I had wounded him badly. That was the thing - you couldn't be married to someone for nearly ten years without knowing where their weakest spots were. And I had flailed wildly in my drunkenness, and I had hit it, square on.

Grabbing the bottle of whisky away from me, he poured himself a massive shot and sank it in one gulp, then turned back to me, his eyes red around the rims. "I was wondering, since when do you care so much about trashy urban pop that you feel the need to go in on the one person on the Arts Council who still has any time for me. But now I know, it's not trashy urban pop, it's me."

"I've always been into trashy urban pop. I was in a trashy urban pop group when I met you, and I'm still making horrible, dirty, glorious trashy urban pop."

"That track was rubbish, I don't even know why we you were fighting over it," he snorted, trying to gain the higher ground, and pretend that he wasn't as wounded as I knew he was.

"That track was mine." Fuck, I hadn't meant to tell him like that, aimed like a weapon in a bitter fight. It was meant to be a glorious triumph, a happy surprise, not a knife twisted in his gut.

"What?"

"That track was mine. I wrote it. Well, I co-wrote it with one of my mates from the Loophole forum. You kept saying, you should do something with your music. So I bloody well did. And I got it released, and got it on the fucking radio. And this is how you treat it?"

"Oh my god." The colour drained out of his face as the fight drained out of his voice. "I am... I am so, so sorry, Lucy. I had no idea. You didn't tell me. Is this what we've come to, that we're keeping secrets from one another?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise." My voice started out cold and hurt, but ended almost in a wail.

"Well, it was a surprise alright." Jack's voice got oddly quieter, the more emotional he got.

I sunk down to the chair, feeling for the table, watching him, though he was unable to meet my gaze. "I want to go home."

"What, back to London? It's late, the last train will have gone."

"First thing tomorrow, then."

"I'll come with you, we'll spend some time together... properly, in London."

"No," I insisted, surprised by the force in my voice. "I think, actually, Jack, it's a stroke of luck that you got this residency here. Because I think we need to spend some time apart."

"What?" Jack gasped, like a dying fish flopping around on a river bank, grasping for words. "Are you saying you want to divorce me?"

"No, I'm just saying that we need some time apart."

"I think we've had too much time apart, I think that's the problem."

"No, I think that this is the first time in ten years, that I've been able to breathe. The first time I've been able to remember who I am, when I'm not running around after you. And I needed to remember that."

"But I need you."

"If you need me, why do you take me for granted, Jack?"

"Because you're my wife, you're the one person I'm supposed to be able to take for granted!"

"That you think that... is precisely the problem. I'm going to sleep in the spare room. I'm going home in the morning."

"You won't. You'll sober up, and you'll change your mind. You'll see the beauty of this place, you'll forget all about it." He was grasping at straws, pretending he was still calm and in control, but his voice was breaking as I turned and walked away.

 

\-----

 

I thought I'd feel better when I got back to London, but I didn't, not much. I opened my DAW and threw myself into my music, and suddenly found it flowing again, ideas for songs rippling from my fingers so thick and fast that I barely had time to sketch one idea out before another one would start to form. I wrote in a fury, barely stopping to eat or bathe.

I didn't check the forum, I was too scared to speak to SleepFuriously. He wasn't the cause of my bust-up with Jack, I knew that - he was just a symptom, a friendly ear who had shown me what a relationship could be, if one's partner were truly supportive... Wait, no, that came out wrong. Half of me desperately craved to speak to him, wondering what kind of advice he would give. But the other half was terrified that he would leap to that same conclusion, and either blame himself for my separation with Jack or... or what?

Such a heavy weight hung on that what.

No, this was fucking absurd. How could I even be asking myself that question - would I leave Jack for Furious? I didn't even know the man's name. He was a phantom, a purely imaginary being whipped up out of my own loneliness and frustrations. It was like the Thom Yorke thing, writ somewhat smaller, in the 12 pt Helvetica of the forum. How could the greasy roadie behind the screen name ever, possibly live up to the image of SleepFuriously that I had conjured up in my head? I turned off the internet and got back to my DAW.

It was a few days before a text message dinged on my phone.

 

> **Adie** : where u at eyesore? ain't seen u on the forum in days. furious is ready to send out a search party, the poor man is pining for u
> 
> **Lucy** : sorry, things have just been mad around here. i've been getting lots of work done on music. got 3 new tracks ready 2go
> 
> **Adie** : 3 nu tracks? that makes 5! that's halfway 2 an album, m8!
> 
> **Lucy** : do u think steve would let us do an album?
> 
> **Adie** : u kidding? the way the single is selling? he'd stab his gran for a full-length
> 
> **Lucy** : u at Brixton next Sat? we can talk about it then
> 
> **Adie** : coo. & drop furious a line before he blows a gasket, k? x

 

I chose email as the least troublesome method, as I was still trying to avoid the forum, and I had no idea what time zone the Radiohead tour had even got to.

 

______________________________________________

 

> Hey Furious - how's tricks? Thom Yorke working your arse hard? Sorry I've been quiet, I went out to Wiltshire for a bit. Jack has a show at Marlborough Arts Centre and a residency in a cottage nearby. Things are... things are kinda strained with Jack at the moment, to be honest. Strained and strange. But you don't need to know that. Adie said you were asking after me, so I thought I'd just check in. Hope all is well with you. Lucy x

 

______________________________________________

 

> eyesore!
> 
> thomyorke has working my arse far too hard lately. fucking hate that guy right now.
> 
> so u were in wiltshire? i wish i'd known. we're back in oxford for a 3 week break but i'm climbing up the walls. can't relax properly if i know i have to go back out on the road again. but if i'd known u were only over the hill and thru the forest it'd have made me a bit happier.
> 
> sorry to hear things aren't so great with jack. to be honest, things aren't exactly easy here, either, but you don't need to hear about that either
> 
> "furious" in oxfordshire

 

______________________________________________

 

> Furious - you know, you can talk to me if you need to. I'm not as good at fixing relationships as I am at fixing Moogs and Rolands, but if you need an ear I'm here for you. I remember the de-pressurisation when you get off tour, it always took me about a week to come down and get back to earth, I think it would almost be worse to have such a long stretch of time. Are you driving your girlfriend absolutely nuts? I used to drive Jack nuts. Heh, he's still out in Marlborough if you want to go and drive each other nuts together without us girls around. Lucy x

 

______________________________________________

 

> lucy - no, my girlfriend is studying abroad at the moment. it's just me rattling round the house on my lonesome. we knew i'd be working so much this year that we reckoned it'd be a good time for her to go and finish her phd. but it's not good for me to be on my own so much. i get weird, paranoid. i spend too much time in my own head. i go kinda feral when she's not around to rein me in.
> 
> i did take yr advice yesterday and drove out to marlboro to see jack's show (it's really not that far from oxford) - didn't see him, but i did see the work. it's... well, it's different from what i was expecting. i'm not sure i like it as much as the electrickery stuff. it seems to me like he's a bit stuck in a rut. does he suffer from creative block? i know artists can be an absolute nitemare to live with when they're blocked. i'm sure i've done it to my girlfriend many times. be patient w him if that's what's wrong. even if - well, especially if your in the middle of a rlly fertile period like it seems you are. he might be feeling... i dunno. defensive. threatened. be gentle with him. and take care of yrself x

 

Staring at the computer screen, I suddenly felt very guilty. How long had it been since Jack had explored a really new and exciting concept? I couldn't remember, to be honest. All the big things, the things that Furious remembered - they'd all been a decade ago, back when we were first married. The National Grid. Neon Leakage. The Electrified Gallery. The Wire Cathedral. Big Bang! Then there was five years of taking them around from gallery to gallery, around the world. Then three years of desperately trying to come up with new ideas - that was when the money had stopped coming in, and I'd gone back to work as a computer programmer to try and take the strain off him. And then the past two years, he had, indeed, been in a holding pattern, trying to get money off the Arts Council to take his shows round smaller and smaller arts centres in Middle England. Maybe it wasn't me he was shouting at for my failure, it was himself.

Picking up the phone, I flipped through my address book until I found the number of the cottage in Wiltshire, and dialled. It rang, once, twice, then Jack answered, sounding very fragile and far away. "Hello?"

"Hey."

"Lucy." His voice wavered, then he steadied it. "I thought you hated me."

"No," I sighed. "I don't hate you. And I'm sorry for the things I said last weekend. I was blind drunk, and I was trying to hurt you."

He sighed deeply. "I went looking for your single. Had to drive all the way into Oxford to buy it." For a terrible second, I wondered if he'd been in Oxford the same day that Furious had driven out to Marlborough to see his show, then stifled the thought. "It's... it's really good. I'm sorry I slagged it off. It is actually beautiful. I'm proud of you."

I wanted to burst into tears. His voice sounded so strained, like it was costing him so much to admit that he had liked something I'd done - but then I realised. Jack never apologised. Never explain, never apologise, it was the one thing he'd learned off Margaret Thatcher. "Thank you. That's very sweet of you."

"Do you still want to divorce me, then?"

"I don't want a divorce, Jack. I just want some time. To think things over, work things out, remember who I am. I'm as scared and confused as you are, OK?"

"So you don't know what you're doing either, while you're putting me through this? Oh, fucking fantastic."

"Jack, for once, can you please, just not be sarcastic and snide? It's really passive aggressive." Please, let us not get in a fight, over the phone.

"I'm sorry." Two apologies in one conversation, that was an incredible rarity. "It's a lazy bad habit, I didn't realise it bothered you so much."

"I just wanted to see how you were doing. I'll talk to you later, I guess,"

"I'm doing alright I suppose. I hope you are, too, Luce."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Radiohead tour reaches London, the entire British continent of the Loophole forum descend on Earl's Court for the concert.
> 
> Will Lucy risk her crumbling marriage by meeting Furious the mysterious roadie, or will she lose her nerve and go clubbing with Four Tet instead?

I made a solemn promise to try to spend less time flirting with Furious. It was myself I was trying to discover and get to know, and I was never going to get to know that self if I threw myself immediately into another relationship - especially such a fantasy internet relationship as I was developing with Furious. But when his name popped up on Instant Messenger, or his email dinged in my inbox, I couldn't help myself. I could tell he was bored, sitting around by himself in a flat in Oxford, and when he was bored, he became mischievous, and a mischievous Furious was actually a hilarious Furious. I don't know if he was parodying Jack, or just trying to cheer me up, but he kept on sending over ridiculous ideas for art projects.

 

> **SleepFuriously** : giant jellyfish descend over oxford. giant space jellyfish
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can just see it now, floating in the sky, their tentacles catching on all the spires
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : like hot air balloon floating by, buoyed up by all the hot air coming out of the colleges. with long trails of sticky tentacles sucking up students and intellectuals and professors, up into the sky
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Marine life revolts. There are way more of them than there are of us, you know. I was watching The Blue Planet the other night, you know that the diversity of life in the sea is like a thousand fold what's on the land
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : they should take over. the jellyfish and the algae and those deep sea creatures with the glowing lights. a giant tidal wave coming up the thames, sweep all humanity away
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That's a bit grim, Furious. I like to think we could form an alliance. though perhaps not with the squid. i think they're only out for themselves. all hail cthulhu and all that
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : they'll eat us alive. nibble on our bones at the bottom of the sea. and i, for one, welcome our new jellyfish overlords!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I think you have been spending entirely too much time on tour with Radiohead, that totally sounds like their lyrics. Go for a walk in the sunshine or something.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : go for a walk in the sunshine? u've been spending too much time talking to me lately, u r starting to sound like me ha ha

 

I sent some of the tracks I'd been working on across to Adie, who remained effusive in his praise. He would take the melodies I'd written and turn them inside out, explode them, and reconstitute their bare bones into elegant new underwater castles of sound, boomy and echoing. Sometimes I didn't even recognise the things I'd sent him, until he pointed out the weird high flutey noise, and insisted "That's the riff you sent me, I pitch-shifted it up two octaves and sped it up to match the drum loops."

Things were going really well for Adie - he was DJ-ing up and down the country now, playing a regular night in Leeds as well as London and Bristol. He'd made enough money to move out of Peckham and was now sharing a house in Croydon with Ollie and another boy named Art who kept such peculiar nocturnal hours that I never seemed to see him, even on the afternoons I made the trek down to cut a few vocals for the album. Of course Adie wouldn't treat my vocals normally, he pitch-shifted them and moved them all about the spectrum, transforming me until you couldn't tell if I was a woman or a man or an interstellar robot or one of Furious' sentient jellyfish overlords. 

Interstep, it seemed, was turning into an actual real thing. Although they already had enough releases to last through into next year, just from their mates in the scene, people were starting to treat it like it was something worth getting involved with. Demo CDs and mixtapes had started flooding in, both to the record shop - where Ollie still worked, more to keep an eye on the temperature of the scene, than for money - and Interstep Towers, the shared house cum studio that was becoming the hub of their operations.

Ollie and Steve still bickered back and forth like they had over the counter of their record shop. I'd thought that the nascent success of Internet would calm Ollie down and make him less hyper, now that money had started coming in from the sales of the Axiom N Atom record, but if anything it seemed to have the opposite effect. He was like an explosion of a young man, carrying on about six conversations all at the same time, mobiles sprouting out of each ear as he organised club nights, booked gigs and tried to sign more acts for the record label. Steve, by contrast, smoked more and more pot and became so laid-back he was almost horizontal, though according to Adie, he was actually the brains behind the operation, keeping the books and adding up the money to make sure that no one tried to rip them or his artists off.

I had been on the Loophole so little, caught up in shuffling back and forth between my office and the makeshift studio in Croydon that I barely had time to go on the web, carrying on my conversations with Furious on my Blackberry on the Thameslink. I didn't even realise that Radiohead were back on tour again until Furious' emails started coming in at irregular hours again, talking about Germany instead of the Upper Thames. Shit! There were meet-ups to organise, in London and Glasgow - were they really going to be in London in only two weeks? On one hand, I was hugely excited, to meet everyone, to see everyone - oh yeah, and of course see the band for the second time that year. But on the other hand, every step Furious came closer to London seemed to bring my decisions about my marriage and my life closer and closer to the surface I'd been avoiding. It wasn't fair to Furious to use him as a symbol of everything that had gone wrong in my marriage, but it was just too easy, all the ways in which he seemed perfect were the ways in which Jack seemed lacking - his optimism, his wicked and childlike sense of humour, and most of all the sensitivity and concern with which he actually asked after my music and my creative projects.

Another week, and the Radiohead tour touched down on British soil. It felt like watching the progress of an invading army, the show reports coming across Europe ever closer - Berlin, Paris, Brussels. And then suddenly they were in Manchester.

"i heard yr track, actually on the radio, for the first time!" Furious enthused. "i made a stop at piccadilly records before load-in and picked up the 12" - gonna try to see if i can get them to add it to the pre-show music."

But I was too busy to really process what he was offering. Organising the meet-up was a nightmare. Allen was driving in from Basingstoke and picking Windowlicker up at Reading, though he was going to be staying down with Adie and the Croydon Massive. MizzTing was flying in from Berlin, and had agreed to let PrincessTelex stay in her hotel room in order to assuage her mother's concerns about letting her go to a rock concert on her own. BearHunt kept changing his mind about whether he wanted to meet us or whether we would just be too much of a gang of screaming fangirls and techno-heads. CryingMinotaur was going to come down, but then he wasn't at the last minute, as he got conscripted in for extra hours at work and had to swap his London ticket for a Nottingham one. But all in all, I was excited. I was hugely excited.

Furious emailed me to let me know that I had two spots on the guest list, if I wanted to bring Jack. I agonised over that decision, but when I even brought it up, Jack complained so much about how much he hated pop music, he hated stadium gigs and most of all, he hated that forum I spent so much time on (and I think he secretly blamed for our separation) so in the end, I told him not to bother and asked Adie to be my date. Adie already had a free ticket, thanks to Kieran, but he gave that one to Steve in exchange for half an ounce of sinsemilla to get us in the mood for the gig, and agreed to accompany me, though he reserved the right to swap back, contingent on whether Kieran or Furious could provide better seats.

The meet-up was insane. Allen had actually rung ahead and booked out the entire downstairs of a restaurant near the venue, but Adie and I got there first. I spotted Allen a mile away, he just looked so much like a middle aged computer programer that I half expected him to pull out a lanyard and click into the server room. But still, I let out an excited shriek at finally meeting him face to face, running over to hug him. Windowlicker was a surprise - I'd expected him to be a spotty teenage terror, but he was actually a tall, lanky public school boy with impeccable table manners and a long, floppy blond fringe that swooped continually into his eyes. 

A cloud of pink glitter down the stairs announced the arrival of PrincessTelex and MizzTing, both of them reeking of cheap perfume and covered in Barry M cosmetics. Telexie (Alexie in real life, appropriately enough) was exactly as I imagined her to be - a hyperactive and slightly chubby English schoolgirl in trendy geek glasses and an asymmetrical dyed-black fringe, who hugged everyone twice and distributed little presents that she'd brought for all the board regulars. She'd baked us all cookies, some of them iced to look like little records, or drum machines - mine was a Moog and Adie's was a 303 - but claimed she was saving the best to give to the band. She and Windowlicker - Joe, rather - stared at each other warily for a while, then decided to sit together. I noted that in person, she rather dominated and teased and pinched him in exactly the way that he did to her online, but he just grinned sheepishly and smiled at her soppily.

And MizzTing. Oh my god, how to describe MizzTing? She was a tall, elegant, black, apparently cis woman of indeterminate age, with close-cropped hair bleached almost silver to match her silver leather trousers and sparkly frock coat. In contrast to her over the top online personna, she was actually quite quiet, serious and gently intellectual, in person. But the real surprise wasn't her gender - though honestly I wouldn't have been surprised if she had turned up and been an actual space alien - it was her laid-back Southern Californian accent.

"Oh my god, you're American," I gasped. We had clocked each other immediately, but kind of circled each other slowly, somehow knowing we would either end up enemies or closer than sisters depending on how we made our first moves. "I had no idea - I was going to compliment you on your excellent English, for a German."

"My folks are from LA, but my dad was serving on an army base near Koln when I was born. Because there were complications, I was actually born in a local hospital, instead of on the base, and spent the first six months of my life in intensive care there, so I managed to wrangle dual citizenship out of it," she shrugged. "I've been all over the world - lived on five continents by the time I was 10, so Berlin is pretty much the only place I've ever felt at home." She hugged me again, then stared at Adie. "Now I seen a lot of things in Berlin, but you are one striking looking man."

Adie laughed and self-consciously ran his hand through his uncontrollable hair. "Yeah, I know I'm a freak, but I thought you liked freaks?" he replied somewhat defensively, but MizzTing's broad smile disarmed him. "You should see my sisters, Colleen and Niamh. Colleen's a professional singer, but people stop Niamh on the street and ask if she's a model."

"You should totally model, man," MizzTing insisted, looking him up and down with a professional eye. "You've got the height and you've got the bone structure."

"Down, MizzTing," I teased. "He's a 20 year old British lad, and he's terrified of girls. Leave him alone."

"Honey, I ain't no cradle-robber, I just know talent when I see it."

"I dunno." Adie seemed to blossom under the attention. "Someone approached me at Plastic People the other day when I was DJ-ing and asked if I wanted to do a shoot for Dazed, but... y'know..." He twisted uncomfortably, like a young man who was almost embarrassed by his own beauty. "I dunno. Lucy said we should really work the anonymity thing for Axiom N Atom..."

"I said I wanted to be anonymous - I didn't say you had to be. If you want to model for Dazed, you do it! Hell, doesn't do my reputation any harm, I'm taking a super-model as my date to Radiohead."

"Like, superstar DJ isn't good enough for you? Shit," Adie sighed, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.

"You two are so cute," MizzTing laughed. "If the pop star thing doesn't work out, you're so gonna get married and have babies."

"I'm already married," I insisted, waving my ring in her face.

"Yeah, well, we already know who you'd give that up in a heartbeat for..." MizzTing teased. "...and we'll be seeing him in a couple of hours!"

My face darkened, and I felt suddenly very defensive. "Look, my feelings for Sleep Furiously are completely platonic. I don't know why you lot can't understand how a man and a woman can be just friends."

MizzTing drew back, a surprised expression on her face. "Honey, I didn't say anything about Sleep Furiously. I was talking about Thom Yorke. Is there something we don't know about going on here?"

Adie grinned broadly. "She's supposed to be meeting him after the show. If she can get the nerve up... I reckon she'll bottle it and come to Plastic People with me."

"I said I might! I haven't actually agreed to anything." My fury turned to a deep blush.

"What's Plastic People?" MizzTing demanded. "Do you guys know of any clubs going on afterwards? I wanna see how the legendary London nightlife compares to Berlin."

His face lighting up at the prospect of turning someone else on to the music he loved, Adie launched into a glowing description of the club, and the weird, warped new dance music that they played there.

I flitted about for the rest of dinner - I spent a few minutes watching Joe and Lexie making gooey eyes at one another over shared memories of Kid A, then moved on to chat to Allen, only to find that he had somehow... multiplied. Sitting next to him was another, almost identical computer programmer type in chinos, a faded Bends T-shirt and a thinning ponytail. So this was his bitter online rival, the notorious BearHunt. And for once, they were not fighting, they were comparing pints and deeply engaged in a discussion of Real Ale festivals in the Southeast. So this was our little community. I smiled as I looked over our crowded table and felt a little warmth glowing in my heart. They were good people, my internet friends, and I couldn't think of a group I'd rather share such a special concert with.

We had to split up to get in the queue. Allen, BearHunt - or rather, Barry - MizzTing (we never got a real name out of her - she claimed "even my Mom calls me Ms. Ting these days") Joe and Lexie all went round to get in the main queue - though Allen caught sight of one of the atease moderators, who let them all cut the queue about 50 people from the front. All around us, we could hear the building shaking with the volume of soundcheck, as the ateasers and Loopholers competed to Name That Tune fastest. Adie and I said our goodbyes, then walked off to locate Steve in a haze of potsmoke down a side alley. We smoked for a bit with him, just enough to take the rising edge of panic off my nerves, then went round to join the much shorter guest list queue on the other side, by the stage door.

Kieran appeared briefly and said hello and stopped for a chat with Adie and Steve before ducking into the building to start his own soundcheck. I thanked him for the remix, then nervously asked him how the crew were, to the accompaniment of Adie's and Steve's incessant giggling.

"I dunno," Kieran frowned. "Things have been a bit tense, to be honest. There was some problem with main arrays at load-in so the set-up was delayed and everything's running a bit late. For a while, I wasn't sure if I was gonna get a soundcheck at all. But I'm sure they'll sort it out. They're all professionals, they really know their stuff."

I would have asked after Furious, but again, I didn't even know his real name, to ask for him. The woman on the door was no help at all - she told us we were on the band's personal list, then handed us our tickets and sticky passes. I was going to stick it in my pocket as a souvenir, as I had no intention of going backstage at all, especially now that Kieran had said everything was really tense, but the door woman barked at me and told me that I had to wear it. Adie and Steve displayed theirs proudly, puffing out their chests, but I moved mine discreetly down to my thigh, out of prying eyes' line of sight.

Adie wanted to go and find Kieran's dressing room and hang out, but I talked him out of it, especially once Steve found a internal courtyard that everyone seemed to be using as an informal smoking lounge. I accepted a free beer from someone, but the ganja was so strong I didn't really need it. I just wanted to find my way back to my seat and sit down, and listen to the world spinning around me.

Kieran's set was absolutely perfect, sparkly and lovely, all disconnected bits of bell chimes and jangling guitar mixed up and swirled with jazzy drums and throbbing basslines. It amazed me, how such playful and whimsical music could come out of that solemn and serious young man, the lightness, the deftness of it so completely unlike his shy and hesitant persona. I just sat back and closed my eyes and watched coloured lights play on the inside of my eyelids as the music rushed around my head.

And then the house lights came back up, and roadies started scurrying around the stage, clearing Kieran's stuff out of the way, and bringing in amps, a drumkit, a familiar looking keyboard draped with a Tibetan flag. I could feel the excitement rising like panic in the back of my throat, inching onto the edge of my seat as I peered down, trying to work out which of those scurrying men might be Furious.

Our seats were fantastic - we were raised up just above the floor at the front, where I could see that Joe and Lexie had managed to push their way to the front of the melee, hanging on to the rail for dear life, but we were still so close I felt I could reach out and touch the stage if I tried. In half an hour - no, only 20 minutes now, according to the schedule that had been posted on the backstage wall - Radiohead would come out on that stage. I looked around to see if I recognised anyone in the VIP area - a couple of journalists, some minor indie pop stars - but then Kieran emerged from backstage and was swarmed by Adie and Steve. I was too stoned to say more than hello as Kieran made introductions and Adie and Steve mingled with the various bigwigs backstage, but I slowly started to understand that DJ Atom was actually a name that was recognised by these people. For a moment, I considered revealing that I was actually Axiom, but I felt very sluggish and disinclined to even speak, especially with the wonderful pre-gig music swirling around my head. What on earth was this? It was classical music, obviously, but had strange electronic whoops and plink-plonks woven through the orchestra. Perhaps Jack would know. I made a mental note to ask him when I got home, but then the idea that I should actually feel slightly guilty about Jack rose to the surface of my stoned mind, and I moved swiftly on.

"Hey, Lucy, they're playing your song," Kieran observed as the music shifted, and a familiar wobbling bass boomed out across the huge auditorium. I felt my mind go blank, but Adie and Steve were both smiling so wide I thought their heads were going to expand like balloons and go floating off into the dark, dizzy heights of the Earl's Court roof. I swore, one of the roadies seemed to stop what he was doing and looked up, his hand to his eyes, as if he was scanning the VIP seats for a reaction from someone, and I wondered for the briefest of seconds if that was Furious. He was a decent looking man, with longish, slightly scruffy hair and a kind face, but as a wave of applause cascaded down the rail, I dragged my eyes away and saw Thom standing almost out of sight, just behind one of the giant stacks of monitors, a huge grin on his face as he bobbed his head to the beat. Oh. My. God. Thom Yorke was dancing to my track, weaving his shoulders back and forth as he used the music to psych himself up.

He was so small, that was the first thing that always struck me whenever I saw him onstage. With his huge voice and his oversized stage presence, it always shocked me when I saw him, his slight body, skinny, verging on frail, and his toothpick legs, almost lost in baggy jeans. I looked at him, and I couldn't breathe. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, but no, it was just Adie tapping me gently on the back and offering me an illicit joint that had come by way of Kieran. I didn't need any more, and yet still I smoked it, hoping that the tension and the nerves would go away.

The lights dimmed, and an even bigger roar went up from the crowd as five thin men spread out across the stage. One of them flicked a switch, and a weird, electronic slithering noise seeped out across the stage. Drums kicked in, an electronic chatter, then Thom stepped up to the microphone, his slight shoulders wrapped in a leather jacket, bathed in an unearthly blue glow as he opened his mouth and started to sing. "Genie let out of the bottle, it is now the witching hour..."

The crowd surged forward and I lost sight of Lexie, but I saw the top of Joe's head, pushing back against the wave of people. The music was overwhelming, the people, the lights, but I felt glued to my seat, my body so heavy, weighed down by the emotional force of the man standing a few meters below me. "Your alarm bells, they should be ringing..."

I lay back and gave myself to the music, it was the only thing I could do. Song followed song, and Adie gave out a little cry of surprise and happiness as we recognised them. Damn! They were playing My Iron Lung - I could only imagine the look of surprise and awe on BearHunt's face. Then the shuffling drums of Where You End And I Begin, a song that found tears streaming down my face as I thought how hard it was to untangle my mess of a life from Jack's. Every song seemed aimed right at my heart, as if Thom was singing right to me. The manic, frenetic dancing of Myxomatosis, the stately grandeur of Sail To The Moon followed by the almost impossible bombast of Lucky. The spliff went round again during Paranoid Android - Adie was on his feet, singing along, though I had no idea how he could even move at this point. The laser noises at the end of Sit Down. Stand Up. seemed to slice right through my head as I hallucinated colour and sound blending into one giant tapestry of beauty, with Thom Yorke standing at the centre of it, beaming out waves of love, as if he were soaking up the adulation of the crowd and reflecting it back a thousand fold, like a giant funhouse mirror. During Idioteque, Adie dragged me to my feet, and I found myself dancing. How could I ever have stayed still to this music? I wanted to jump up and down and shout and throw myself about and declare to those five figures down on the stage just how much I loved them. I had forgotten Jack. I had forgotten Furious. I had forgotten the Loophole even existed, all I knew was that this music was beautiful and perfect, swaying along like a tree as Thom's voice soared up into the ether on Fake Plastic Trees.

That seemed to remind Adie. "Mate!" he screamed at Kieran over the music. "Are you going to Plastic People afterwards? There's supposed to be a secret DJ set by James Holden!"

"Dunno, I might. Are you and Steve going?"

"Wild horses couldn't keep us away. You should come, play that new track you just at the end of your set. People would go mad, man."

"Hush, you guys!" I hissed. "I'm trying to listen to the music." Ed and Jonny were standing at either side of the stage, like a pair of sentinels, slamming on drums as the beginning of There There rang out. The words seemed like a red-hot dart, aimed straight at my heart. "Steer away from these rocks, we'd be a walking disaster..."

"Can we go now?" hissed Steve, who was clearly not that impressed by rock music, and itching to make it to Plastic People before there was a queue.

"No way, just watch. Another two encores to go," Kieran announced, and lit another spliff to convince Steve to stay.

"Do you know what they're gonna play?" Adie demanded. "Are they gonna do Everything In Its Right Place?"

"No idea, it's been a different set every night. Loads of surprises. I've no idea how they pull it off."

I clapped along with the crowd, chanting for the band to return, and finally they returned, Thom scooting up against the piano, putting his eye right up against the video camera like he had done during the web chat. As he started You And Whose Army I could actually hear Lexie squeal with delight, down in the front row, as he turned and grinned straight at her with a look of pure evil.

I lost track of time. Everything seemed to collapse in on itself. They did three encores... no, two. It just felt like three because they stretched Everything In Its Right Place out so long, spinning it out into a skittering electronic jam, Thom singing and dancing like a maniac as Jonny crouched by the side of the stage with a Kaos pad, turning his voice into a wailing, shrieking banshee cry.

The lights finally came back up, but I didn't want to move, I felt so utterly overwhelmed, powerless to move from my seat. Even though the house sound system had taken over, playing a stream of obscure indie rock, I couldn't believe it was really over. I wanted them to come back and play again. Why was I only going the one night? I wanted to scour the web for tickets and come back, do it all over again. Maybe I could beg Furious for another set of tickets... but the bottom dropped out of my stomach at the thought of Furious. My head was too full of Thom Yorke to think properly. Fuck, how was I supposed to go backstage and make polite conversation with Furious, knowing that Thom Yorke was only a few yards away - possibly even in the same room if he made me go to the aftershow party.

Kieran and Adie were trying to make plans, even as they were debating whether they would go to the aftershow first or jump in a taxi straight over to Plastic People. "We gotta go, mate, I just got a text from Ollie - he says he can hold four spots for us on the guest list, but only until midnight. We gotta get over there, or risk not getting in."

"OK, OK, let me just go check on my gear. I'm leaving it here overnight, but I just want to check everything got stowed OK," Kieran sputtered.

"Skip the aftershow," Steve blustered. "They were alright, you know, but I don't wanna go meet no fuckin' rock band."

As I moved to follow them, towards the backstage door, Adie turned to me. "What about you, Lucy? Are you gonna go look for Furious, or are you gonna come with us?" It seemed almost like a challenge, as if he was asking, who's your real friends, him or us? It was like a cricket test for internet versus real life. No, don't be ridiculous, that was just the paranoia from the pot talking.

"I don't know." My head spun.

"Nope, sorry, you can't come back in this way." A bouncer blocked our path, even as Kieran tried to reason with him, showing his performer's pass. "Alright, you can come in. But those others, they gotta go back out."

"But we have passes for the aftershow," I insisted thickly.

"Yeah, so go back outside, to the door where you lined up to start with, and they'll let you in and take you through to the party. But we can't just have people wandering around the area while the roadies are trying to clear the stage. Health and safety risk."

"I'll meet you at the stage door in ten minutes, OK?" Kieran promised. "Then we can all get a taxi over."

I let Adie pull me away, off down the stairs and back outside, confused by the thousands of indie kids wandering around, trying to find buses, trains, their mates. It was like a bomb had gone off in Earl's Court, and there were bands of sweaty survivors milling around looking for help. I tried to spot Allen or MizzTing or anyone I knew, but it was impossible. Instead, we fought backwards against the current of people to find our way back to the backstage door. Adie put his head down and his hands in his pockets, making a beeline for the door, ready to flash his pass, but I heard someone calling my name. 

"Lucy! Over here!" I turned to see Lexie, Joe and MizzTing standing in a loose gaggle with a bunch of ateasers, clustered round the backstage door to wait for the band to come out. "Oh my god, that was so amazing! Did you see when Thom looked straight at me during YAWA and grinned? I nearly died!"

I just grinned, too stoned to speak, as Lexie and Joe excitedly chattered through a play by play recap of the show.

"So are you guys going clubbing?" MizzTing demanded. "I mean, I'm happy to give the spare hotel key to Lexie if Joe walks her back, but I really would rather go to a club instead of stand around a stinking alley in Earl's Court all night waiting for Radiohead to finish partying."

I turned to look, but Kieran had already emerged from the backstage door with Adie and Steve on his heels. He stopped to sign autographs for a couple of kids in the gaggle of fans, then waved at a minicab slowly making its way up the alley towards us. Everything happened all in a rush. I wanted to go backstage and at least say thank you to Furious, but Steve and Adie started quibbling over who got the front or the back seat, and whether we could fit MizzTing in if I sat on someone's lap.

"Are you going to the aftershow?" Lexie asked, desperately, he eyes huge as she eyed my unused backstage pass, still clinging to the thigh of my jeans.

In a moment, I had decided. Reaching around, I pulled Steve's pass off his shirt, removed my pass, and handed both to Lexie. "Go on, you two go. You'll enjoy it way more than I will."

"Oh my god," Lexie stuttered, staring at the passes in her hands, but Joe just shrugged and grabbed one, fixing it to his shirt.

"My pass!" protested Steve. "I was gonna keep that as a souvenir."

"Shut up, you don't even like Radiohead," I snorted.

"But it said Four Tet on it," he complained, even as I tried to squeeze myself into the taxi, perching on Adie's lap as MizzTing pulled the door closed and the taxi backed off down the alley, headed for Shoreditch.

"Furious is gonna be furious," I sighed, realising I hadn't even left a message for him.

"What?" grunted Kieran, then turned to the driver. "Do you mind if we smoke in your cab?"

Plastic People was incredible, as predicted. It felt like a home-coming, as the four of us - well, now five, counting MizzTing - skipped ahead of the queue and got waved in. People stared at Kieran like he was a superstar - hell, they were even starting to stare at Adie that way, now that DJ Atom was starting to be well known. Steve wheedled his way into an impromptu set, then Kieran went up with his laptop and tried out a couple of the new songs he'd debuted during the Radiohead tour, and then James Holden just played and played all night, choon after choon, until we spilled out of the club at some ungodly hour, staggering down Old Street, my shoes with their stupid, ridiculous heels in my hands as MizzTing haggled with a cornershop owner to sell us some afterhours wine. I wanted to put her in a taxi back to West London and her hotel, to find out what had happened to Lexie and Joe, but we somehow all ended up piling into the elevator up to mine and Jack's flat.

"Jesus Christ, Lucy, I had no idea you were so loaded," Adie gushed as he staggered out onto the balcony overlooking a large, overgrown private garden behind our building. "This place is lush!"

"I'm not loaded. Jack's family is loaded," I explained apologetically, suddenly seeing the place through the eyes of the Croydon Massive. Kieran was giggling and picking up little bits of Jack's clutter, weird sculptures and bits of electronic kit.

"Where's your loo?" Steve demanded.

"That door... actually, no, better to use that one by the spare room. Who knows what girly shit is in the main bathroom," I stuttered, trying to find nibbles in the kitchen for all of them.

"You have two loos?" Adie laughed. "Jesus Christ, you're posh. We had only one for all of us - parents, brothers and sisters - and there were six of us!"

"Wow, this is cool," Kieran observed, picking up one of Jack's sound-sculptures and plucking the strings intently.

"If you break that, I am fucking dead."

"Oops."

"Hey! Check out this Moog! Let's hook it up and have a jam session!" MizzTing had discovered my workbench.

 

\-----

 

I have no idea how I got rid of them all in the end. To be honest, I was so wasted and groggy when I finally awoke in late afternoon that I would have not been surprised to stumble through and find Adie collapsed on the sofa, but I was fortunately alone. And feeling very, very guilty about blowing Furious out. I logged onto the internet and scanned the forum, looking for his name, but he hadn't been online. PrincessTelex had been - she must have got up at the crack of down to write a 3-page review of the meet-up, the gig, the aftershow, and lots and lots and lots of very overexcited gushing about how amazing Thom was, how lovely he had been to them, how polite and friendly he had been, how he'd taken the time to talk to Lexie at length - for about twenty minutes - about the show, and the band's lyrics, and the Loophole tracks they'd chosen, and what it all meant. My heart choked in my throat a little. Christ, I hadn't even thought about what I'd done, sending an obsessive teenage girl right into the middle of the aftershow to badger Thom, but apparently he had been lovely about it, and had even put off talking to journalists twice to make sure that she and Joe had enjoyed the evening.

I just stared at the screen. It was so unexpected. After all the rumours about how difficult Thom could be, and how intimidated I was by him, it just seemed like such a nice gesture. He had to be an actually decent man, in the midst of all that craziness, to make sure that two obsessive fans had a good experience at their gig.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Did you speak to Furious at all? Did you even meet him?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : no. the roadies were really busy, but i told thom to tell him that you said thank you for the tickets.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh my god. What did Thom say?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : he looked kinda sad. and then he said that furious would be really disappointed. but then he laughed and said that it served furious right for spending all that time on the internet, when he should be working.

 

Then SubterraneanHomesickAllen chipped in with a somewhat more measured, but no less impressed review of the gig, saying that he had buried the hatchet with BearHunt, permanently, and they were looking forward to doing it all again that evening.

Nothing from SleepFuriously.

Well, I hadn't really expected there to be. After all, he had been up late, working, and god knows what time the band would get up to start it all over again for the second night. I opened an email and typed his address, but then couldn't think of a thing to say.

 

> Hey Furious
> 
> I'm sorry. It was chaos after the gig. Adie was fussing about the guest list at Plastic People, that we had to get there before midnight for all of us to get in, and I just thought, you know, this is going to mean so much more for PrincessTelex, this is going to be something that is going to stay with her, her entire life. And besides, I was so fucking stoned on Kieran's amazing ganja, I could barely even speak, let alone meet new people and...
> 
> Oh, fuck it, Furious. I was scared. I was scared of meeting you. I was scared of not meeting you. I was scared of this turning into something real, and I was scared of it not turning into something real. I saw you, when you came out onstage when they were playing my song, and I saw you looking up into the VIP section, with that expectant expression on your face, and I thought "could I love this man?" and I just fucking bottled it.
> 
> I'm sorry. I'm a coward, and now you know. This is why I'm too scared to do anything with my music unless it falls in my lap. This is why I married the first man who ever told me that he loved me, regardless of how I felt about him. This is why my life is so fucked up and in such a mess now, and I need to figure this out and stop hiding away, avoiding my life in the Loophole.
> 
> Lucy

 

There was no answer that night. I knew there wouldn't be, with Earl's Court the mess that it had been the previous night. I didn't even try to go out to the gig, I stayed home and nursed a bottle of wine as I watched old videotapes of me and my sister, the one official video that we made for our single, the weird, surreal Top of the Pops performance I'd been too drunk to remember, and a couple of shaky home made films our dad had made at various gigs. The little girl with the huge wig of pink hair and the ridiculous home-customised Keytar looked so excited, so full of life, so up for anything as she bounced around and sung her song about racing round the M25 to a rave where she would dance, dance, dance until time stood still. How on earth had she turned into me, in only ten years?

I finished the bottle of wine and collapsed into bed, to sleep, dreamlessly, until noon the next day. I'd blown it. I'd blown it all.

I was woken by a message dinging onto my blackberry, mistakenly left by my pillow. Ignoring the pounding in my head, I stared at the email. Sleep Furiously. I cringed, and wondered what barrage of recriminations I would face. But when I opened it, there were only a handful of words.

 

> nottingham. tomorrow. one ticket in your name. please come?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy goes to Nottingham to meet Furious, for real this time.
> 
> But when forum kids intervene again, members of Radiohead start to conspire to get them together.

I must be insane, I thought to myself, but how often does life give one a second chance? I got on the internet and booked a train to Nottingham, booked a single room in the Nottingham Hilton, then tore my wardrobe apart looking for something to wear. I didn't tell a soul on the forum - I didn't even tell Adie, too afraid that he would try to talk me out of going. I barely slept that night. I changed my clothes three times before I went. At first, I threw on one of the booty-skimming dresses I usually wore to go dancing at FWD, then decided, no. Not appropriate for a Radiohead gig, with all those angry young indie kids. Then I tried on the Grecian dress - at least Furious would recognise me in that. No, that definitely looked like I was trying too hard. Finally, I threw on a pair of jeans, a nice shirt and a cardigan that would be appropriate for late Autumn in the furthest reaches of the Midlands. As I flopped down on the sofa, and tried to go through the tangle of things in my handbag to lighten my load, the corner of something shiny and plastic caught my eye, slipped down between the cushions and the arm, so I fished it out. It was clearly the remains of Steve's killer sinsemilla. Without thinking, I grabbed it and stuffed it into the inside pocket of my handbag. Who knew, it might come in helpful up in Nottingham.

My conscience pricked me as I grabbed my keys and my suitcase, and caught sight of an old photo, just as I was about the dash out the door and up to Euston. A picture of Jack and I, in happier times, I think perhaps we were even on our honeymoon, on the Isle of Wight, standing at the end of a pier, laughing, the sun in our eyes. For a moment, my heart juddered, but I picked it off the wall, then placed it face down on the shelf by the door that usually held our post.

I bought copies of Mixmag, The Wire and Future Music to read on the train, and buried myself in the music on my headphones, a mix that Adie had made for me, stuff they played at the record shop, the latest hits and classic tunes from the past ten years of bass music in South London. It was the perfect soundtrack for the shuddering and shaking train, barrelling its way through the grey day towards the North.

Opening The Wire, I skimmed the features, then turned back to the reviews and previews, wondering if anyone had written anything about Jack's show. They still sometimes covered him, given his involvement with sound art, but there was nothing, even in the listings. But as I was flipping it closed, something caught my eye. A column, by Stephen Reynolds of all people, banging on in his usual mixture of academic jargon and futuristic rave hipster-ese... about Axiom N Atom. "This is not the work of a beginner. The sophistication of the harmonic structure, the complexity of the rhythm, this is not a record that could have leapt out of the unformed imagination of a bedroom producer, alone in a council flat in South London. Methinks the anonymity is a diversion, that this is a late-period triumph by a master who has chosen to hide his identity in order to pursue a new direction, a new sound so potently novel that this wobbling bass will surely come to dominate the hardcore continuum over the next decade. This is an unacknowledged classic by Richard D James, or another pseudonym of Richie Hawtin, surely."

I wanted to burst out laughing. It was that, or rip up the pages of The hallowed Wire in rage and frustration. Our little wibble of a track - the unacknowledged work of Aphex Twin or Plastikman? It would have been an insult if it wasn't such a huge and impossible compliment. Shaking my head slowly, I picked up Mixmag - and there was an even weirder sight. In the "new labels to watch" section there was a moody, intense black and white photo of Steve hanging out in the underpass into the Whitgift Centre, and an accompanying article about his record label. "Axiom N Atom is just the beginning for us. We've got upcoming releases planned from Condition: Amber, Particular Fizzix, Skammer and a really special collaborative project from DJ Atom of Axiom N Atom." It was too much. In print, the sullen, moody adolescent seemed to have turned into some kind of impresario for the entire Croydon Massive. I read the magazines cover to cover, but even as the train crawled into the outskirts of Nottingham, I kept coming back to those two articles and just staring at them in disbelief.

Nottingham looked fairly grim from the train station, and I found myself desperately wishing that I hadn't come, but it was too late to turn back now. I asked directions, and found that my hotel was fairly near the train station, so I decided to walk, tugging my suitcase behind me. The town was full of young people - students, perhaps, or just kids in town for the show that night, congregating in gaggles as I walked through a shopping centre and up into the high street. There was the Hilton, a fairly forbidding building, but I might as well check in before trying to find dinner or the venue. Nottingham was hilly and I didn't fancy dragging my suitcase about unnecessarily.

I gave the woman at the front desk the print-out of my online reservation and she puttered about, trying to find a record of it. "Oh yes, here it is," she finally chirped, coming towards me with a plastic card for the room's lock. "Sorry we're so disorganised - it's very busy today." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "There's a big rock band up from That London staying with us tonight, so it's more chaotic than usual."

"We're not from That London, we're from That Oxford," a voice said at my elbow, a calm, but poshly accented male voice, and my heart skipped a beat. I looked up to see an almost impossibly tall man standing beside me, towering over me.

"Oh my god, Ed." I stuttered, tripping over my words, and he looked down at me, smiled, and I swear, he actually winked. "You're in town for the show tonight," I found myself saying aloud, as if it weren't completely obvious.

"Yes," he nodded, smiling so that his immense jaws seemed to be all teeth. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," I replied, feeling all my thoughts draining out of my head apart from the brightness of his smile. Oh for the love of god, Lucy, just say something. Anything. A thousand things crowded my head - was the road crew staying in the same hotel? Did that mean that Furious was somewhere near me, perhaps in the lobby, perhaps only a few dozen feet above my head? Ed would know Furious... Christ, but Ed had never posted on the forum, he might not even know what I was talking about. But he was about to walk away, so I grabbed at straws. "Are you excited for tonight?"

"Oh yes. No matter how many times we do this, it never gets boring." His cut-glass Oxford accent, in that soft voice, it just seemed so out of character with his scruffy yoga pants and faded T-shirt. Looking down, I noticed he was actually wearing flip-flops. In Nottingham. In November. Was he mad? "Are you?"

"What?" I stared up at him and gulped like a fish, the flip-flops forgotten.

"Excited? For the gig?"

"I'm sorry, I'm rather distracted. You see, I'm supposed to be meeting a friend?"

"Oh. Well, I hope you find her." Another broad grin as he pushed his hair out of his face.

"Him. And you see, I don't know what he looks like." Oh, for the love of god, Lucy, stop talking. His smile was fading to confusion and the slight edge of boredom, as in, why the hell is this strange woman talking to me. Quick, think of something. "You might be able to help me, actually. You see, he's travelling with the band..." Oh, no, that was the wrong thing to say. Now he thought that _I_ was one of those mentalist fans who chased them from town to town.

Ed frowned, and scratched the stubble on his chin thoughtfully, but then he brightened. "Oh, if your friend is from the interweb, there's apparently a big meet-up for the official forum in the Yates pub on the square. You'll probably find him there. Or at least find someone who might know him?"

"Oh." Oh god, Lucy, say something, make him come back, explain to him that you're looking for one of their roadies, a man you know only as Sleep Furiously, a man you've never met, but you're thinking of leaving your husband for. Oh, yes, that will make him think you're not a total loon. "Thanks."

"I hope you find your friend." His head snapped around as the elevator doors opened, and Phil and another man wearing a tour laminate stepped out of the lift. He moved as if to walk over to them, but then he turned back to me and held his hands up, pointing to the corners of his mouth. "Enjoy the gig. And do smile - please? It always makes us feel better when you smile."

And with that, the three of them walked off, following signs pointing towards 'Swimming Pool' taking with them my best hopes for finding Furious. If indeed that hadn't been Furious walking with them. Hell, any of the half a dozen men milling around the hotel lobby could be Furious - most of them looked like roadies, in their heavy jeans and black t-shirts. I looked carefully at each of them, waiting for signs of recognition, then realised it probably would not do for a young woman to walk around a strange hotel lobby, smiling hopefully at all the men in the room. Seizing my suitcase, I dashed for the lift that Phil and the roadie had just vacated and made my way up to my room.

In my room, I got out my blackberry and messaged Furious, letting him know that I was there, and that I had just checked in, and was staying at the Hilton. To my surprise, a reply pinged back a few moments later.

 

> **Furious** : did you just talk to ed in the hotel lobby?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Oh my god, how did you know?
> 
> **Furious** : that poxy fule! he's so stoned he'd forget his head if it wasn't attached. come down to the pool, we're all having a pre-gig swim!
> 
> **Eyesore** : No way. I didn't bring my swimming costume. And if you think I would get half naked and wet in front of Radiohead and a dozen of their roadies, you are fucking deluded.
> 
> **Furious** : haha i didn't think of that (or maybe i did)
> 
> **Eyesore** : Dinner?
> 
> **Furious** : can't. they'll have dinner for us up at the venue.
> 
> **Eyesore** : Oh, never mind. I guess I'll just go to the forum meet-up and see if anyone I know is there. I'll see you after the gig, I guess.
> 
> **Furious** : you will come to the aftershow, this time? you promise?
> 
> **Eyesore** : I solemnly swear
> 
> **Furious** : no more shroedinger's crush bullshit?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Let's kill that fucking cat. I'll be there.
> 
> **Furious** : c u l8r then x

 

I wandered up to the pub, and to my great surprise, I did actually know several people there. As I walked in, a small, bearded Scottish lad came barrelling up to me and wrapped me in a bear-hug. "I'm Dave - Crying Minotaur on the forum. Recognised you from your photo. Come over and meet everyone. You know Joe - Windowlicker  - and this is Italian Marco - he posts on the official forum - and his girlfriend Andrea. I can't believe you're here! So happy you got a ticket after all..."

"Sleep Furiously got it for me," I explained nervously.

"Who is Sleep Furiously? You met him after the Earl's Court gig, didn't you?" Dave demanded.

"No, but I'll find out after the show tonight, won't I?" I sighed, feeling suddenly very nervous and wishing I'd brought the baggie of pot with me. But no, I wanted to be sharp enough to remember and properly enjoy the show tonight, unlike the hazy psychedelic smear of the Earl's Court show.

"Sleep Furiously? He is mysterious poster know everything Radiohead  an hour before is posted in official web, yes?" Marco demanded in hesitant English.

"I'm fairly sure he's on their road crew," I insisted.

"It could be anyone, though. It could be Nigel, it could be Stanley..." Dave theorised, but I rolled my eyes and explained about the IP addresses. "So you're saying it can't be Jonny, or Thom, or Nigel, or Stanley, or anyone at Courtyard?" He sipped his pint then thoughtfully wiped the foam off his beard with the edge of his sleeve. "Maybe it's Ed."

"It's not Ed. I just saw Ed on the way to the swimming pool - and he told Furious I was here, and Furious was annoyed that... I dunno, he hadn't invited me along." I laughed at how ridiculous it all sounded. Since when was this my life, being invited to pool parties with Radiohead?

"Ed told Furious? No! Ed is Furious! It's obvious!"

"No, CaptainObvious is over there, talking to Optimistic by the bar."

"Wait," interrupted Andrea. "You see Ed on the way to a swimming pool? Was he in trunks, or shorts, or those - how you say? - little Speedo suits that show the eggs...?" She spoke English much quicker than her boyfriend, especially where Radiohead was concerned.

"Andrea," moaned Marco, looking at his girlfriend reproachfully.

"Sorry, no, he was in yoga pants. Baggy ones." I tried not to think about the idea of Radiohead in swimming trunks, but once Andrea had suggested it, the thought refused to leave my head. Was it too late to text Furious back and say I would come down? No! Stop it! Not even for Thom Yorke in short shorts. I asked if anyone wanted a pint, then went up to the bar and ordered a beer and a light supper of fish and chips.

The party broke up as people drifted off to go and queue - Nottingham had a wristband system to stop people camping out in the Lace Market all day, but some of the crazier fans wanted to wait by the back of the venue so they could watch the band arrive. I thought about going back to the hotel, then wondered if I should text Adie to see if I could get Kieran's number off him, and invite him out for a pint. But no, that would mean explaining to Adie where I was and why I was there, and that meant too many questions I didn't want to answer. Instead, I walked idly around Nottingham until the shops closed, then headed over towards the venue. 

There were thousands of kids - I never quite got used to that, just how many people there were. I always thought of Radiohead as a special, personal obsession all of my own, so it was slightly shocking to realise exactly how many people shared it. There didn't seem to be a guest list queue, but I enquired at the box office, and was given an envelope containing one ticket, another backstage pass and a wristband that apparently entitled me to free food and drink. Damn - I wish I'd known that before I'd bought dinner at Yates, but then again, I didn't want to drink too much, I wanted to stay sharp for the concert - and what would come after.

The gig was strange. Perhaps it was because I wasn't so stoned I had thought my head was floating up in the rafters. Perhaps it was different, sitting in the VIP section by myself, without Adie and Steve and their constant background of banter. Gigs were always more fun with friends. Four Tet was still magic, but my seat was uncomfortable and I felt stiff from the long train ride. I walked about a bit between the bands but I didn't see anyone I knew - all stuck up at the rail, no doubt - and I felt awkward with my wristband and my backstage pass slapped on my jeans, so I found a beer and went back to my seat.

The lights dimmed - they were playing the same selection of pre-gig music, so I wasn't that surprised when Axiom N Atom came on. I craned my neck, looking onstage for my roadie, but he was nowhere to be seen, only a drum tech doing last minute adjustments on the snare's rattle. A murmur went through the crowd - wait, yes, there was Thom again, standing almost out of sight in the wings, scanning the audience as if trying to get the mood of the crowd. His eyes swept over my section of the audience - much closer, as it was a rather smaller venue than Earl's Court - and I swear, our eyes locked for a second. He smiled, and raised his eyebrows as if in greeting, but I got the fear and quickly looked away, terrified, feeling like I'd intruded on some private moment. There was something about his gaze that was just electric, and I felt like I was going to pass out if I held it too long.

The rest of the band slowly filed out. Ed walked over to my side of the stage, then looked up, and he definitely saw me, as he gave me the thumbs up and then pointed to the corners of his mouth as a reminder to smile. Did I really look that terrified? I tried to smile and wave back, but he'd turned back to the audience, nodding and smiling at fans he recognised.

The set list was totally different. If I thought I'd known what to expect, I was completely wrong. It was a more tense set, darker songs, not quite as triumphant as Earl's Court, but still those moments of intense beauty followed by long stretches of manic joy. Kid A was magnificent, but Backdrifts was incredible, threatening to spin out of control at any moment. A Wolf At The Door and Climbing Up The Walls scared the shit out of me - Thom's scream at the end seemed never-ending, but it quickly calmed down to Pyramid Song, as I felt my nervous tension drain away. Idioteque lead into The Gloaming - oh, Adie would have loved that, those were his two favourite songs. They played Street Spirit at the end of the first encore - and I thought of BearHunt - then came back with You And Whose Army, making me giggle as I thought of how excited PrincessTelex had been as Thom made his faces at the piano. The Bends - Crying Minotaur must be loving that! - then a song I didn't recognise. New song? B-side? Well, I would find out on the Loophole tomorrow. And then they ended with the spiralling beauty of Everything In Its Right Place.

And then abruptly it was over. The lights came on, but I sat still, watching the kids draining out of the auditorium, too scared to face the music of what would happen afterwards. I was glad I wasn't quite so stoned, but at the same time, there was a part of me that craved the fuzzy warmth of a chemical blanket. I stood up and my phone buzzed in my pocket.

 

> **Furious** : don't u dare leave this time
> 
> **Eyesore** : I'm here, I'm coming, I'm just waiting for the hall to clear out a bit first
> 
> **Furious** : door's round the back. don't be too long.

 

I took a deep breath, then made my way out the front of the auditorium. I had expected there to be crowds, but it wasn't that bad. It wasn't a great part of town, so people seemed to be heading off quickly, back towards the better lit parts of Nottingham. As I walked around behind the venue, I pulled my cardigan closer about me, desperate to get inside, as this neighbourhood was making me distinctly nervous.

And then, of course, someone shouted my name. It was Dave, and Italian Marco and his girlfriend Andrea, though Joe seemed to have sensibly run for the last train. "What are you guys doing here? You should not be hanging about here, it's not safe this late at night," I fussed, like a mother hen.

"It'll be fine, I'm from Leith," Dave shrugged, but I could see Andrea step slightly closer to Marco, and not entirely for warmth.

"It's going to piss with rain, any minute, you guys - you should go somewhere warm."

"Alright for you to say," Dave snorted, eyeing my pass.

"What? I gave my pass away in London, I'm not doing it here, I'm sorry, Dave, I would but I promised Furious."

"Can you not text Furious and ask him for more passes?"

"Alright." I hated doing it, but I was worried about them. Well, not Dave, he seemed like he could handle himself, but Marco and Andrea seemed very young, and Marco barely spoke English.

 

> **Eyesore** : Furious, I'm out here, but there's kids from the forum here, waiting out in the cold. Is there any way I could get another couple of passes for them?
> 
> **Furious** : no. sorry. the backstage is really small tonight and the band are in a weird mood. we don't want extra people around
> 
> **Eyesore** : is this a bad time? should I go home, then?
> 
> **Furious** : NO! just come in.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I'm not coming in until I know that Marco and Andrea are alright. Look, they're not English, they've flown all the way over from Italy and I'm scared they're going to get jumped on the way back to the train station
> 
> **Furious** : oh for fucks sake.

 

I looked at my phone, then looked back at Dave, desperately. It had started drizzling, and the small gaggle of fans had thinned out until we were the only people left. Dave pulled a pac-a-mac out of his backpack and defiantly lifted it over his head, resolute on staying. 

"Look, you can come back to my hotel, if you like. They'll turn up there eventually, they're all staying there," I started to offer, but the backstage door creaked open as I spoke, and a shaggy head with black hair and pale olive skin stuck itself out into the rain.

"Oh. It's raining. Hang on, I'll get an umbrella." The door closed for a few moments, then a huge golf umbrella inflated, easily big enough to fit 3 or 4 people under it, then Jonny emerged underneath it.

I blinked, barely believing my eyes, afraid to look away in case he vanished, but instead he adjusted the umbrella so that it sheltered Andrea and I. "Which one of you is LonelyIsAnEyesore?" he enquired gently, looking back and forth between the two women in the group. Come on, couldn't he tell which one I was by my skin...? Oh. Yeah. Actually, properly colour blind. For a moment, I considered denying everything, but Andrea pointed at me. I smiled wanly. "It's lovely to finally meet you," he announced in a slightly surreal whisper, shifting the umbrella slightly so he could shake my hand. "Well, properly at last. Face 2 Face, as they say. Ha ha."

"Yes. But what on earth are you doing here? Well, duh, you've just played a gig here. But what on earth are you doing out here, in the rain?"

"Our friend Furious is absolutely beside himself. Thought we better send out a search party."

"As if he can't come out himself" I huffed, not sure if I should feel insulted by Furious' non-appearance, or honoured by Jonny's presence.

Dave stared, awestruck, then finally extended a hand towards Jonny. "We've met before, but you probably don't remember. I'm Dave. Crying Minotaur on the forum. I'm so... oh my god, I started playing guitar because of you."

"Oh, you're very kind." Jonny blushed slightly and smiled, revealing seemingly far too many teeth. "Wait, did you do the track with the guitar loop that went... weedle, deedle, whip-whip or something like that? I really liked that one."

"Yes, yes that was mine," Dave stuttered, beaming from ear to ear, despite the rain dripping in his face. "Look, would you sign my ticket for me?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Jonny agreed, all elbows and ribs as he searched for a pen. I took the umbrella from him and held it over his head as he signed, then Marco and Andrea produced their ticket stubs. "Did you enjoy the show?" he ventured as he scribbled his name across them.

"Oh my god, yes, this is the fifth time we've seen you on this tour, and I think it was the best one yet! I can't believe you played Fog, I've been waiting to hear that for years!" Dave gushed.

"Yes, that was a good surprise. It's good to dust off something like that every now and again," Jonny agreed.

"Can we take picture with you?" Andrea suggested, and for the first time, Jonny frowned.

"I'd really rather not, if that's alright with you?" Jonny whinged, though he was more apologetic about it than annoyed. "I've just done a gig and my hair's all sweaty and... bleurgh. I'm sure I look an absolute dog's dinner."

"You look fine! But oh. Never mind," Andrea agreed amicably, staring up at him with puppydog eyes. Jonny stayed for a few more minutes, chatting gaily about the show, but soon Andrea grew concerned. "You're shaking! Are you scared or cold?"

"Cold, I'm afraid. I should have known to come out wearing more than a T-shirt but it was very warm in the backstage area. I should really go in so I don't catch my death of cold. Are you going to be alright getting home, or... where are you going?" Jonny wondered.

"We're staying at a youth hostel up the hill, we can just get the bus," Dave explained, finally realising that he had got as much of a fan experience as he was likely to get.

"Do you have money for the bus?" Jonny fussed.

"Yes, I think so. I've got a whole pocket full of English change." Andrea pulled out a handful of shrapnel and Jonny carefully went through it, pointing out the pound coins.

"Well, it was lovely to meet you," Jonny intoned like a nice, well-brought up English boy, even as Andrea squealed gently, then lunged up and kissed him on the face, once on each cheek like a proper Italian. He blushed and tittered like a schoolgirl, then moved towards the door. "Come on - Lucy, is it? Furious is waiting for you."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, as I flashed my pass at the security guard, then followed him into the bowels of the building. "I mean, that was extraordinarily nice of you to do that for Dave and Marco and Andrea - but why are you doing this for me?"

Jonny grinned like a Cheshire Cat. "I just want you two to meet. You get on so well, on the forum. I just wanted you to understand... what he's like. What he's really like."

"I know what he's like, really," I ventured, feeling that warm tickle building in the top of my chest, like every time I thought of Furious. "He's lovely. I don't understand why people on the forum give him such a hard time. He's just such a funny, lively, affectionate, warm... lovely human being." Could Jonny not see the crush glowing all my face?

"Right then, it's time for you to meet Furious." Jonny was practically exploding with giggles as he opened the door to a dressing room, and held it, gesturing for me to walk through ahead of him. "Hee hee hee hee hee," he tittered behind me as I stepped through into an apparently empty room, then Jonny pulled the door closed behind me with a loud slam, trapping me in the room.

"Hey." The room was not actually empty. There was a small man sitting folded in one corner of a sofa on the opposite side of the room. A small, slim man with skin as pale and buttery as white chocolate, a tousled, spiky, dirty-blond mullet, a crooked smile, and bright blue, oddly mismatched eyes.

"No," I gasped, looking around desperately, but there was no one else in the room but the two of us. "Look, this isn't funny. Where's Furious? You've had your fun, right, the joke's on me, but knock it off. Where is he?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Furious meet IRL, and are forced to confront their feelings for one another, as the genie is let out of the bottle.

Thom stood up and walked over towards me, his eyes misting over with a slightly foolish expression as he looked me up and down, his gaze finally coming to rest on my lips. "Wow. You're even more beautiful than I remember from 2 Too Many... oh god, shut up, Thom!" He raised his hands to his face in embarrassment and rubbed his eyes briskly before staring at me. "Oh god, I'm sorry. I always get so attractive around tongue-tied women... I mean.. Fuck! No. Shit."

I looked up at him, blinking in shock. Though he looked tiny onstage, he was at least an inch and a half taller than me. But it was still strange to look almost directly into a man's eyes, instead of somewhere in the vicinity of his navel, as I usually did with Jack. "Is this Jonny's idea of a joke? Because I don't think this is funny." Thom just smiled at me, his wide lips crinkling around the edges. As he looked directly at me, his good eyelid fluttered down towards his cheek, but his left eye remained fixed, staring at me in a way that made me feel distinctly uneasy. "I'm about to get really angry. Where is Furious?"

Thom shook his head gently, confusion starting to dawn in his eyes. "Wait, you really didn't know? I thought you said, in London, that you saw me on stage..."

I pulled back from him, horror creeping across my face as the realisation hit. "I saw... a roadie... I thought... oh my god."

"Lucy, there is no roadie. That was some kind of joke for the forum. I'm Furious. I am Sleep Furiously."

I backed away slowly. "You can't be. Your IP address. When you posted to the forum, from your laptop, it wasn't the same as Furious..." Thom shrugged, and glanced across at the make-up table. His blackberry was lying there, still open to our last conversation. I could see my own words on his screen. "Oh my god." My face flushed with anger and embarrassment and betrayal, a thousand emotions swirling in my mind at once.

"It's me. Idiot, batshit Sleep Furiously."

"I don't believe you." Why would he do that? Why would he build up my hopes, flirt with me, get me to believe in him, only to dash all my dreams like this? "You're not Furious, you're just fucking with me, like this is some giant joke and you're just laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing at you." He shook his head as he stepped towards me, picking up my hand gently and playing with my fingers as if he were examining me. My skin prickled at his touch, but I couldn't find the strength to pull away. "I wasn't even laughing at you, back in 91, when your sister shot me full in the face with that fucking glitter gun. I wasn't being arrogant, I was just really fucking intimidated by you, because you were so fucking beautiful and so funny and clever, and you were quoting all that mad shit about art and pop backstage, that you'd picked up from the KLF. It was such a disaster of a gig, for us. Jonny's cable shorted out, and your sister lent us one of yours without telling you. A neon pink cable, the same colour as your hair. I remember the colour to this day, because it was the first time I'd seen fancy American cables in custom colours. And you went spare at your sister and started shouting at her, so I lost my nerve and I didn't even say thank you to you for saving our gig." I stared at him as he spat out his story, details of a gig, over a decade ago, that no one would have known, if they hadn't been there. "You covered my arse. Just like you covered my arse when I couldn't work the bloody monitors in Cubase, and you covered my arse when DeusExMachina and Windowlicker were ganging up on me, and you covered my arse by never, ever blowing my cover, or telling people about my solo tracks, or anything else."

My mind rebelled, as he reminded me, not just details of the gig, over a decade ago, but little bits of the private part of the forum, that no outsider would know. Fucking hell - he'd snuck onto the forum, he had violated our privacy, and he had lied about who he was. Anger surged hotly through my face, turning my ears red as I faced him. "You lied to me!"

He shook his head slowly. "I never lied to you, Lucy. Yes, I used a fake name on the forum, but I have never, ever, lied to you. Everything I've told you has been true."

"But... but..." My mind reeled. "You led me on! How the fuck am I supposed to trust you now?"

"Haven't I proved my trust? I didn't tell anyone about 2 Too Many. I didn't tell anyone about Jack's artwork, either. And I haven't even told anyone about Axiom N Atom - fuck, do you know how many journalists have asked me about that track, since we started playing it in our warm-up music? I could have had an exclusive, I could have claimed credit for discovering the hottest new artist in Britain... but I haven't ratted you out, not once."

I pulled my hand away from his, and covered my face with my hands, trying to blot it all out. "But... but.. Furious..." my tongue stumbled over the name, though I'd said a hundred times. "Thom." No, that didn't seem right, either. Closing my eyes, I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. "I was falling in love with Furious. I was starting to have feelings for him. Real feelings. Like, thinking he was the kind of man I could leave my miserable marriage for."

Thom whistled softly, I could almost feel his breath on my face as he pulled my hands away from my eyes and took me by the shoulders, forcing me to look up at him. "So we opened the box. And Schrodinger's Cat is alive?"

I shook my head desperately. "But now... now I find out Furious was never real, he was just a fucking actor? I thought I was falling in love with a real person, a real, funny, sensitive, living human being, but now I find out... he's... he's Superman?"

A slight chuckle, a silly, schoolboy laugh. "But you fell in love with Clark Kent? You fell in love with the nerdy, uncool, bashit insane human being behind the cape?"

I looked up at him, the unruly tangle of his spiky blond hair, the intense blue of his eyes, the dusting of gingery stubble across his perfect jawline. His hands moved from my shoulders, up my neck and towards my face, cupping my chin as his lips seemed to move closer, and then, suddenly, his mouth was on mine, the barest pressure of a kiss, sending tiny spikes of electricity jolting down my spine.

The spell was broken. I felt energy surge back through my leaden limbs, and I somehow recovered the ability to move, pushing him off me and stepping away from him. It was too much. I couldn't do this. "Don't!" I cried, then turned, grappling with the door handle, and fled from the room.

I broke into a trot down the corridor, trying to retrace my steps, then found the outside door and launched myself from it, racing out into the rain.

"Lucy!" I heard steps behind me as I bolted down the dark alleyway, and out across the parking lot. Thom was sprinting up behind me, and gaining on me, fast. "Lucy, stop, it's not safe out here at night!"

I stopped as I came to a main road, and realised I had run in the wrong direction. This wasn't the way back across Lace Market and back to the square, it was a main road out of town. "It's not safe back in the theatre, if you're going to paw me..."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." Slowing to a trot, Thom caught up with me and held Jonny's giant golf umbrella over my head, shielding me from the rain. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. Please forgive me. I'm an arse."

"No, it's OK," I sighed, and even allowed myself to thump his chest affectionately as we turned and walked back through the parking lot. We had locked step exactly, even though we were walking quickly. Our strides were the same length, so I didn't have to go running after him like a child the way I did when Jack went striding off. Jesus Christ, was I going to start comparing Jack to Thom Yorke now, the way I'd once compared him to Furious? And then it hit me. Thom Yorke had tried to kiss me. No, wait, Furious had tried to kiss me. But there was no Furious. Or Furious was Thom Yorke. My head felt like it was spinning.

"At least let me walk you back to the hotel."

"I don't think I want to go back to the hotel. I want a drink."

"Do you want to go backstage? There's plenty of drink there."

"No!"

We walked up the hill, looking for a pub that was still open, but there were only studenty looking bars, most of them offering specials on "post-Radiohead drinks." No, that seemed like a supremely bad idea, taking Thom into somewhere like that. He'd be mobbed.

"I suppose we better go back to the hotel - at least the bar there might be open," I suggested. "Though... Christ, it'll probably be crawling with your road crew. Funny to think, just four hours ago, I was desperately looking for one of your greasy roadies, but now..." I tried to laugh as my voice trailed off.

"Well, I can find you a greasy roadie if you want," he offered with a smile, his good humour returning. "I'm still trying to rack my brain to work out who you thought was me at Earl's Court. Was it Ed's guitar tech?" Reaching down, he took my hand and gave it a quick squeeze. But as he pulled it away again, I reached over and touched his fingers with my own, until he replaced it. His hands were small, his fingers didn't engulf mine the way that Jack's did, they just fit neatly into mine. We walked up the hill hand in hand, but I released his hand as we walked into the hotel.

I glanced into the bar and sighed. "It's absolutely heaving."

Thom shifted his weight from leg to leg like a nervous horse. "Fancy a swim?" I laughed and shook my head briskly. "We could go upstairs?"

"Your room or mine?" The words were out of my mouth before I realised what they sounded like, but Thom just giggled and covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes twinkling as he looked at me. "I meant... oh fuck."

"We've got a suite, so that's probably a bad idea if you want privacy." He paused. "You want privacy, don't you?"

"I want a drink, more than anything else in the world, and there's no drink in my room."

"Don't you have a minibar, in your room?"

"Not in the cheap rooms, fuck no." And then I remembered the small baggy of Steve's Sinsemilla hidden in the inside pocket of my suitcase. "Wait, I might have something better than drink. Do you have any rolling papers?"

"Ed will. Or, well, there might be some rolling papers in his room." Thom's eyes lit up at the thought of naughtiness to come. "Look, show me where your room is, I'll go up and scout what I can get, and them come back, alright?"

I looked at him carefully as I lead him to the door of my little room, tucked under the stairs at the very end of the corridor, with a honeymoon view of a ventilation shaft. If he was used to suites and minibars, what on earth would he make of my lifestyle? Did I even have a lifestyle? Or was it all Jack's lifestyle? I tried to imagine Thom on the dance floor at the Corsica Rooms, or pressed up in the tiny DJ booth, like Adie, with a pair of headphones draped across his head, and I just started to laugh.

"What?"

"You are coming back, aren't you?"

"You still don't trust me?"

"Not as far as I could throw you."

"I'm pretty light. I'd go a fair distance if there was a strong wind," Thom teased, then with a flash of his marvellous smile, he was gone.

I dashed into my hotel room and quickly tidied it, sweeping discarded knickers off the bed and into my suitcase, then walked through into the bathroom, washed my face, still sticky with sweat from the gig, and tried to run a brush through my tangled hair. Looking in the mirror, a terrified young woman blinked back. What the fuck was I thinking, inviting Thom Yorke back to my hotel room? Everything about this whole evening was completely insane. I poured myself a glass of water, sipped at it nervously, then walked back out into my room. There were only two places to sit down - a small, lumpy chair, and the bed. I chose the chair, then sat down to wait.

He seemed to take ages. I started to think that I had imagined the whole thing. Maybe I'd gone mad, maybe I'd been talking to myself in the rain outside the backstage door the whole time. Slowly, I managed to work myself into a complete tizzy, but then I picked up my blackberry and saw the messages on the screen. At least some of it had happened. Come on, Thom, where are you? I was about to message him on the mobile, when there was a sudden, insistent tapping, like a blackbird at my door.

I opened it a crack and peered out into the gloom - yes, it really was Thom, grinning back at me, triumphantly holding up a bottle of white wine in one hand, and a pack of Rizla in the other. "Mission accomplished," he announced, handing the rolling papers, and threw himself down into my chair to open the bottle of wine, kicking off his shoes. "Got any glasses?"

"Only one."

"Do you want the glass or the bottle, then?"

"I'll take the glass, as I've been drinking out of it."

He twisted his mouth into a crooked smile. "So you don't want to swap saliva with me in any way?"

Trying to ignore him, I sat down on the bed and started to roll a joint, even as he filled my glass with wine and deposited it on the night table by my head. Something in the back of my mind told me this was a really stupid idea, but I just couldn't handle the evening straight. I lit the joint, took a deep breath, then handed it to Thom, exhaling as I reached for my glass of wine.

"Why the fake name?"

"I didn't want to intimidate anyone," he shrugged. "Jonny told me that you thought people might be nervous of putting their demos up if they thought we were listening. I didn't want to put anyone off."

"But why join the forum in the first place?"

"For the same reason we ran the contest - because we wanted to encourage kids to create, to interact with the music, to become producers themselves as well as consumers, not be just mindless consumers of our products." Once he was off, he didn't sound like Thom any more, he sounded like Furious, passionate and inspired. But then I realised that they were the same. "This is the brilliant thing about the internet - it connects artists with their fans, and fans with the artists, without any of that press and record company and middleman bollocks."

"So the songs you sent me, those were really your demos?"

He nodded, a wry grin spreading across his lips as he handed the spliff back to me, still a little wet from his saliva. "I was gonna put them up on the forum, at first, but then I got scared. Everyone was so sharp, they were so good at spotting samples and identifying sounds, I thought they'd be on to me in a minute."

"But you trusted me?"

"Yeah. I trusted you implicitly, almost instantly. You seemed fair. Firm, but fair. And I wanted you to like me."

"You? Wanted me? To like you?" I sputtered, laughing at the absurdity of it.

"I guess I was afraid you would throw me off the forum," he whimpered plaintively, and took another swig of the bottle. "You seem to like banning people."

I snorted with laughter, letting a lungful of potsmoke escape from my nostrils. "I'd happily ban half the assholes on there. But I guess that doesn't go along with your whole peace, love and no censorship thing. I'd make a rubbish anarchist... christ, I should have known it was you with the Noam Chomsky quote, but it threw me, that it was linguistics and not politics." 

I lolled back on the bed, lying down and propping my head up on my elbow, studying him carefully. With a skinfull of ganja, it didn't seem quite so absurd that Thom Yorke was sitting in my hotel room, looking back at me with heavily stoned eyes. If I squinted, I could almost make him into the mental vision I'd had of what I imagined Furious to look like - thin, scruffy, dressed in regulation jeans and faded black T-shirt, the laminate tucked around his neck. 

"Hell, I should have known from the music. No one else could have written melodies like that. And the vocal snippets - you didn't get those off Digital Landfill - you recorded them, didn't you?"

He nodded slowly and took another sip of wine, rolling the bottle back and forth against his lips. "Yeah, but those were the backing vocals, mostly. Some of them have proper vocals, lyrics even. I wish I could play you the full versions, with the words. But I thought the vocals would completely give me away. My voice - I hate it, but it's so fucking distinctive."

I sucked at the remnants of the joint, then stubbed it out in an ashtray. "I would actually love to hear them. That's the irony. I genuinely loved your music." I paused, trying to screw my courage up. "Perhaps even more than Radiohead."

"Would you do me a remix? I'd absolutely kill for an Axiom N Atom remix. I've got a song that would be perfect for you." His voice was tense, nervous. and it seemed like I was not the only one trying to get my courage up.

If I hadn't been so stoned, I would have been completely taken aback, even shocked by the request. But not as shocked as what came out of my mouth next. "We might... if you contributed vocals to one of our tracks, for the album."

Thom's face lit up like a girl who had just been invited to the prom. I had a sudden spasm of paranoia - what if it wasn't me he was attracted to? What if it was my world, my gang, the Croydon Massive - now that Axiom N Atom were starting to make a name for ourselves, and Steve's label seemed like it was going to turn into an actual thing, with Mixmag doing features on it, and clubs like FWD and DMZ were getting big previews, bigging them up in the Guardian Guide? No, that was absolutely ridiculous. Radiohead were the biggest band on the planet. What on earth could they stand to gain from a ragtag gang of dubstep producers from South London? But still, he seemed delighted at the invitation. "Oh my god, I would absolutely love to."

"It's a deal, then," I giggled, flopping back on the bed. Christ, I couldn't wait to tell Adie, just imagining the look of complete disbelief on his freckled face. But Thom was still looking at me, a question writ large in his eyes. "What?"

He shook his head quickly, and scratched at the side of his hair, scrunching the spikes carefully to make them stand on end. "I'm sorry. You lying there looking at me like that. I... I know you think that I planned this whole thing just to fuck with you, but I swear, on everything I hold holy, I never planned anything like this, I never thought anything like this would ever happen."

"Like _what_?"

"Like..." His eyelids fluttered, or at least one of them did, the other just kind of drooped, his lashes thick against his cheeks as his eyes slid down my face, coming to rest on my lips. "Like I'm getting the urge to kiss you again."

I slitted my eyes as I turned back towards him. It wasn't really Thom Yorke sitting there, it was my Sleep Furiously, asking me dumb questions about drum machine programming on the forum. "I might let you."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are Lucy and Furious going to have an affair?
> 
> Or do Radiohead have something more exciting to offer her?

Slipping off the chair onto his knees, he shuffled towards me, standing over me and looking down at the bed. His face loomed large, his eyes following the curve of my neck, down to my breasts, and then back up, finally focusing on my lips. And then he bent down, and pressed his mouth against mine.

It wasn't a shock this time, but it still sent an almost electric shiver down every nerve in my body. For a moment, he just held his lips against mine, then as I reached up and put my hands on either side of his head, tangling my fingers in his hair, our lips opened and his tongue slipped inside my mouth. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine I was with Furious, then opened them again and saw Thom's face, so close up he looked all distorted, his cheekbones filling my view. For a moment, I thought of the weird faces he'd pulled in the webcam, then my mind reeled, realising he'd answered his own questions and explained his own screen name, right in front of me, and I'd noticed nothing. I started to giggle, and he pulled away, curious.

"Am I that funny?"

"No, just... I'm laughing at how oblivious I've been all this time. Let's try this again." I pulled him towards me again, gently but urgently, and felt him shift himself, climbing half onto the bed as we kissed. My body actually ached for him. I always thought it was a cliché, but I could feel a strange tension in my legs, the desire to just wrap myself around him. But he stopped, and pulled back slightly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I just..." He straightened slightly and slipped onto the bed, lying beside me, staring at me with those incredibly blue eyes, one half-open, slitted, looking down at my lips, the other slightly wider and staring. "I needed to get off my knees."

"I think I like you on your knees."

A wider smile, tentative but deeply intrigued. "Really?" 

"Disinfected, eager to please," I quoted, and he rolled his eyes as I laughed, nervously, but I moved my hands, touching his ears, feeling the way they stuck out from the side of his head, moving down across his cheekbones, the slight stubble of his short beard, the crooked path of his nose, and ended at his lips, just as they parted and he sucked my fingers inside. As he closed his eyes, for just a second, his face flickered with something approaching fear, but then longing eclipsed it.

"Are you alright?" I asked, softly, feeling his tongue, soft against the pad of my finger, as much to reassure myself as him.

His eyes opened and he released me, smiling nervously. "Are you?" I nodded gently. "I'm... I'm scared, to be honest."

"Me, too," I confessed, feeling a shiver going down my spine.

"But also... very, very turned on." 

I paused, biting my lower lip as I moved my finger back and forth across his mouth, feeling the rough burr of his stubble against my hand. "Um, yeah. Me, too."

"Really." He moved closer, twining his legs through mine, so that I could feel just how turned on he was, and found myself moving against him, rubbing at him as I wrapped my legs around his. "Christ. Are we really..."

"Do you want to?"

He replied by bringing his mouth down on mine hard, almost roughly, but then pulled back, even as his hips pressed against mine. "Yes, of course I do... but also no. I mean, trusting someone - enough to want to get naked with them... Show my disgusting, pale, hairy..."

"I think your body is beautiful. All of you. You're beautiful because you're you."

The look in his eyes, just before he kissed me again, it was heartbreaking. And yet he was moving against me rhythmically, grinding himself between my legs until I could feel him, even between two pairs of jeans. His hand moved up from my waist, across my stomach and under my shirt, cupping my breast before closing thumb and forefinger on my nipple, as I arched my back towards him. Everywhere he touched me, I felt hot, my toes curling with lust. Were we really going to do this? My body felt like it was screaming for him, even as my mind was ticking overtime, spurred into paranoia by the drug. "What on earth am I doing?" said my head. "More, more, more," said my hips and my groin.

My phone bleated and I found myself crawling back to sense, struggling away from him. "Don't answer it," he begged, but I recognised the ringtone I'd set for my husband.

"It's Jack."

A spasm of pain and guilt racked his face as he slowly pulled away from me. "Are you going to get it, then?"

"No. Let it ring." My voice wavered as I said it, even as Thom disentangled his legs from mine, though I could still feel him on my skin, everywhere he had pressed up against me.

Blinking, he sat up and rubbed his eyes blearily, looking over at the bleating phone, then back down at me. "We shouldn't do this, should we?"

I felt like I was going to break. "God, I want to, Thom. But I am married."

"You used to joke, on the forum, that you'd risk your marriage, for me."

"Not for you. For Thom-Yorke-Rock-Star-Impossible-Dream who would sail in and out of my life in one unforgettable night with no strings. 

"Is that what you want, just one night, with no strings?" There was something that sounded like actual disappointment in his voice. "That's all?"

I shook my head. "With Rock Star Thom, maybe. But not with Furious, though. Furious, you're... messy. You're complicated. And I'm greedy. I would want... more than that."

"Would you leave him, for me?" His eyes bored into mine, and it seemed absurd to be discussing Jack this way, with his bleating ringtone still filling the room.

"Would you leave your girlfriend?" I couldn't even bring myself to say her name.

At that, the phone finally stopped bleating, leaving in its wake an awful, ringing silence which seemed to deepen as he looked away, frowning, no longer able to meet my eyes. I felt suddenly cold, and reached for a blanket, wanting to wrap up the traitorous body that was still yearning for him, shield myself away from his impossibly blue eyes. And yet, wrapping myself in a blanket seemed only to highlight the fact that we were, both, still lying together, only inches apart, on the narrow bed.

Choking back a strangled cry, he balled up his hands to rub his eyes, then thumped them gently against his forehead. "Christ, I am such a fuck-up. I can't even seem to have an affair right. What the fuck is wrong with me? Other men seem to manage it, without all this fucking drama. I'm such a joke."

I stared at him. "Have you not... done this before?" It wasn't something I'd really thought about, I'd been so caught up in the moment. He was a rock star, it came with the territory. Rock stars screwed around on the road all the time... didn't they?

He stared back at me, horror-struck. "Fuck no."

"What, not even with groupies, girls on the road?"

"Never!" He seemed almost outraged at the very idea of it, but then his face grew curious. "Have you? I mean, when you were in a band, on the road?"

"That's different, I wasn't married then." I replied defensively. "I haven't. Not with anyone, not since I married Jack. I hadn't even thought about it, well, until..."

Even the mention of my husband's name seemed to make him almost writhe with guilt. "Until..."

"Until Furious." I paused, remembering the knots I'd tied myself in before I'd even met him. How on earth could I have guessed how complicated it would get? "Trust me, I thought about it."

For a moment, his face twisted with the edge of a proud smile, but then it was wiped out by guilt again. "There's no... good way out of this, is there?" he finally conceded. "If we do, we're fucked. If we don't... we're fucked."

"We always knew this might happen if we opened the box."

"I know." Swinging his legs off the side of the bed and turning away from me, he rubbed his face with his hands. "Half of me says, fuck it, let's just do it, live a little, just this once, and face the consequences tomorrow."

My whole body seemed to shudder slightly at the idea, that he could actually just articulate it like that, moisture seeping out between my legs as I seemed to throb with desire. "But the other half?"

"Thinks that would be putting out fire with gasoline."

I frowned at the unfamiliar Americanism, then realised that it was a Bowie quote. "Cat People. Produced by Giorgio Moroder, 1982. I would kill for his sequencers."

He turned back towards me, his head cocked over one shoulder. "Can you ever just stop, being a producer?"

"Can you ever just stop, being a songwriter?"

"Yes. I stopped for ages. Between OK Computer and Kid A. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. Like walking around with a limb missing. Or like walking around blind. Like something really fucking critical and necessary had been just removed from my brain, and there was nothing I could do to get it back." Slowly, he turned back around to face me, though when he pulled his legs back onto the bed, he wrapped his arms around them protectively, leaning his chin on his knees as he faced me. "I'm sorry, I just can't help but wonder, when you talk about Jack, and the way he's been acting, if he's there, in that place. And me, being here with you, when he feels like that, it's just so fucking wrong. So completely unfair."

"You perhaps identify with Jack, just a little too strongly, I think," I managed to articulate, after an awful, hollow silence.

"Maybe I do. I suppose, in another life, if things had worked out differently... I might be him."

"What, if you'd spoken to me after the gig at The Venue?" I asked wryly.

He laughed, but shook his head. "No, I mean, if I'd really applied myself, at art school. Or if... I suppose, if I'd been born wealthy, if I hadn't had to earn a fucking living, I'd have been an artist instead of a pop star. I could have gone either way. And being an artist, I suppose that was definitely cooler. But I thought, if I do this, I have to reach people. I have to make a go of this, and earn a fucking living at it. And I thought pop was the one place where that was still possible. More fool me."

"What? You're doing alright."

"But for how long? Our contract with EMI is done. After that... the great what if? It's paralysing, that kind of wide-open choice. Do we keep going? Do we split up and make a couple of solo records? Do we sign on again with EMI? Go out on our own? Go to another label? It does my head in, thinking about it all. If I'd been born rich - so rich I didn't have to work for a living - it'd be like that, all the time, would it? I'd have to do something to justify my fucking existence, but without that hunger to drive you..." He shrugged lightly, lifting his wide shoulders, then laid his head sideways on one like a funny bird. "I think sometimes that it's actually the fear that drives you, the fear of failure. Remove that fear, and where's the pressure to do anything?"

"So that's why you think Jack sits fannying around the flat all day, complaining about the Arts Council, instead of kicking himself up the arse and doing something new?" I countered defensively.

"I don't know. I don't know Jack. But I do know you. I don't think you'd stay with someone if you didn't believe in them, if you didn't think that he was, deep down, a good person." He pulled a wry smile.

"I think you're a good person, for what it's worth."

Thom smiled mischievously, rolling his head across to the other shoulder and blinking at me slowly, reminding me of nothing so much as an oversized owl, perched on the end of my bed. "I'm not, you know. I would still totally bang you, married or no." His toes crept across the mattress, almost of their own volition, and buried themselves under my nearest thigh.

"But you haven't, though?"

The regret in his face shone through his wistful smile. "In my head, I am."

"We don't _have_ to, you know. We can leave the damn cat in the box."

"Yes. We can be grown-ups about this. We don't have to do every damn thing that crosses our minds, even if it fucks up two relationships, and probably one very beautiful friendship."

"Shall we leave it in our heads, so we can stay friends?" I asked, desperately willing him to say no, to uncoil, to pounce, to press me down on the bed and insist _Fuck Jack, I can't live without you._ Anything but that pathetic little shrug of resignation. As I stared back at him, I tried to imagine writhing beneath him, letting him pin me down and press between my thighs, swallowing him up and begging for more. A song popped into my head abruptly, and I started singing, feeling the lyrics bite as they never had before. " _Now what am I supposed to do, when I want you in my world? How can I want you for myself, when I'm already someone else's girl_?"

Thom's head jerked to attention, as he caught the melody and sung along. " _Well, I guess I'll see you next lifetime, baby we'll be butterflies. I guess I'll see you next lifetime, that sounds so divine_." He smiled. "I love that album so much."

" _No hard feelings... I guess I'll see you next lifetime_ ," I finished, so pleased he had caught the reference. Jack turned his nose up at R&B, but it figured that Thom was an Erykah Badu fan.

"No. No hard feelings, none at all. But you reminded me... I can help you with your music," he offered, as if it were a consolation prize. "Please, at least let me do that for you. We can take this... rampant lust and sublimate it, channel it, send it somewhere useful. I know people that could help you. I have contacts - at Warp, at XL. Hell, we could take you along on tour. Your mate Kieran can vouch for how good that's been for his career."

I laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. "He's not my mate, he's Adie's mate, really."

Thom smiled, a genuine smile of mischief and pleasure, for the first time since the alarm bell of my telephone had shattered our night. "I can't believe, that you lot went clubbing, after the show the other night, and you didn't even invite me."

The image of Thom cutting loose on the dance floor at Plastic People skidded across my mind, and I broke into giggles. "I didn't know you then. And you'd hardly have accepted, would you? Doesn't seem like your scene."

"I love dancing," he insisted. "I'd have been on the floor in a heartbeat. You'd never get me off, all night."

I stared at him, wishing I could just press a button and have him and Jack somehow just flip lives. I tried to imagine a world where this funny little energetic man with the charmingly crooked smile was my husband, where we could share everything, music, dancing, where he would encourage me, and I would encourage him... but clearly that would never work. If I couldn't even encourage Jack, who'd had every advantage in life thrown at him, how would I ever encourage Thom, with his odd neuroses and the massive chip on his shoulder?

"You should go," I finally sighed, shaking my head to shift the fantasy.

"I'd rather stay."

"Don't you have to get up and drive to Scotland tomorrow?"

"You could come with me."

I stared at him, turning the idea over in my head. Could I do that? Could I just drop my life and go chasing off after this man, across the country? Then again, what life did I have? Three days a week as a programmer for a bank, and the other four days dancing my life away in the sweaty clubs of London? Adie was the rising star in our band, not me - Steve had as much as said so in the interview with Mixmag. And yet, I couldn't quite bring myself to say yes.

"You've already got support on this leg of the tour. Kieran would kill me if I muscled in on his territory."

Thom's smile faded, as he seemed to deflate. "Right. Japan it is, then. Next spring. Cherry blossom time, apparently it's supposed to be very beautiful." He lowered his voice as he leaned towards me. "You'll love Japan. Even you and me, we'll be the tallest people for miles around."

"Japan?" I gasped. It seemed like a complete pipe dream, one of those places I'd dreamed about going, my entire life, but never seemed even a potential reality.

"Please. Let me do this for you. Let me do something for you. Say yes."

"I have to ask Adie, but..."

"So ask him." He nodded towards the blackberry, still sitting on the table by the bed, displaying one missed call. It seemed so disloyal,picking up the phone and sending a text to Adie, with that missed call sitting reproachfully in my inbox, but Jack hadn't left a voicemail. And he hadn't rung back. Clearly, whatever it was hadn't been that important. Instead, I quickly dashed out a text.

 

> **Lucy** : Don't ask how, don't ask any questions, just answer me this: how would you feel about touring Japan in support of Radiohead in the spring?
> 
> **Adie** : HOW?
> 
> **Lucy** : I can't tell you. What do you think? Yes or no?
> 
> **Adie** : you snuck back and met furious, didn't you?
> 
> **Lucy** : yes or no, Adie? Axiom N Atom touring Japan. I need to know. Now.
> 
> **Adie** : YES. FUCK YES. OF COURSE YES. But come on, Luce, we're mates. Don't hold out on me.
> 
> **Lucy** : I'll tell you when I get back to London.

 

"I can tell by the look on your face that he said yes."

I nodded slowly, barely trusting my voice to speak. This was the same sick, floating feeling in the bottom of my stomach that I'd got when we'd first met Bill Drummond in a cafe in Soho and he'd suggested our single as a prank.

"You won't regret it, Lucy. You're going to love Japan. I promise."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy returns to her husband with her marriage (just) intact.
> 
> But when she confesses all to Jack, he wants to know how he can use her new connection with Radiohead to his advantage.

We didn't fuck. That was all I could think, repeating it to myself on the train over and over again, though in recrimination or relief, I couldn't quite tell. Sure, we had kissed, we had even fooled around. But he had never stuck it in. It didn't count. We sat up all night talking, though I kept asking Thom, didn't he have to go and get some rest for the gig the next night, but he kept insisting that he would sleep on the bus on the drive up.

He told me all about himself, things I'd never known, and never would even have guessed. We talked about music, mostly, like we always talked about music when we were together. He told me how he had started play guitar at school - and how music had quite literally saved his life. He told me about art school, about going to raves on the beach, down in Devon and Cornwall, about DJing and falling in love with Acid House. He told me the first time he dropped an E it was like he was born again, but he was too scared to do it again, for fear he would wake up one day and be a completely different person, like his anger, his sheer obstinacy was what kept him motivated, and kept him alive. He told me about his band, how they'd fought and worked their way up, from toilet circuit venues to theatres to stadiums. About how he thought they were like a scrappy little gang, and he didn't really think they were any better than most of the bands they'd pulled ahead of, but what they were was dogged and determined with this kind of perseverance driven by insecurity. It had never dawned on me, the idea that Thom fucking Yorke could be insecure, could doubt the importance of the songs he wrote and the music he made. It was so odd, looking into this famous stranger's iconic eyes, and seeing this familiar man, Furious, that I recognised in there.

But what he didn't tell me, told me just as much. He didn't tell me about his girlfriend, or his family, or any of his relationships at all. And I shied away from saying any more about Jack, out of fear or embarrassment or loyalty, I didn't really know. We tried not to touch, though our legs and feet couldn't help but brush together, even as we bedded down at opposite ends of the wide mattress.

And in the morning, after we'd dozed a bit, and drank a pot of tea together, we said our goodbyes, down in the lobby, by the front desk, with chaste hugs that might have gone on a little too long, but didn't really attract any attention. It was only just past the crack of dawn, and there was no one but a bare bones of overnight staff still on duty. I stumbled to the train station and stared darkly at the departures board. There was some problem on the main line track between Birmingham and London, and everything was being diverted around it. And then I saw the next train on my platform was headed for Bristol, and there on the list of station stops, was Swindon. When it pulled up, I got on without a plan and bought a new ticket from the conductor. If Thom was right, now was the time that I'd need to support Jack like never before.

And I hadn't fucked him. I hadn't. My marriage was intact.

In Swindon, I got a load of cash out of a machine, then hired a taxi to Marlborough. I supposed, really, I could have called Jack and asked him to come and pick me up, but I still felt guilty about not answering the phone, and found myself spinning some fib about a dying battery. The truth was, I wanted to see Jack, to touch him, to fuck him, to remind myself of the physical presence of my husband, not risk another tense conversation and maybe even a fight, on the telephone.

The taxi got me as far as the village, but when the driver saw the state of the muddy track out to the house, he refused to drive me out, and deposited me on the grass verge, swearing. There was Jack's car, parked just outside the entrance to the drive, so there was no point in ringing him now. Instead, I picked up my suitcase and started off down the long track, for once glad of my thick jeans and sensible shoes.

But halfway down, there was a sudden flurry of hooting, and then a massive Jeep swerved around a corner, and I had to hop up onto the steep bank to avoid being run down. As the car turned to miss me, I caught the driver's face quite clearly - Mary Worthington. My blood boiled, but really, there was no reason to be suspicious. It was now late morning, she could have dropped in for a friendly visit. But that confidence lasted until I rounded the last bend in the drive, and saw the house. Jack was sitting on the front porch, staring out blearily into the woods, smoking a cigarette. His legs were bare, splayed out in front of him, he appeared to be wearing nothing but his bathrobe, and his hair was dishevelled into a strange crest, as if he'd only just got out of bed. The smoking was odd enough - Jack hadn't smoked in years, though I knew that Mary Worthington certainly did. But the bedhead and the state of undress....

I couldn't help myself. I ran shrieking out of the lane and up to the house, screaming abuse and raining curses on Mary Worthington's head. "Really, Jack! How could you? With that old hag? With Mary Worthington? I know that things haven't been great in our marriage recently... but to fuck Mary fucking Worthington? That's fucking low, Jack, even for you." I flew at him, my fingernails out, wanting to rip him limb from limb, but he caught me before I did any more damage than scratching a long red snake down his forearm.

"What?" He blinked at me as if I had completely lost it.

"You fucked Mary Worthington! How could you?"

He stared at me, uncomprehending. "Are you absolutely fucking mad?"

"What else is she doing here, at this time of the morning, with you all undressed like that."

He looked down as if noticing his state of undress for the first time and started to laugh. "Oh, for fucks sake, Lucy. I was asleep, yes. I don't get out of bed much these days, without anything to wake me. Mary drove down because she wanted to catch me before the post, and deliver the news in person, rather than have me just read it in a letter."

Shaking his head, he flicked the butt of his cigarette off into the bushes, and I noticed for the first time, that his eyes were rimmed with red. His state of dishevelment was due not to passion, but to distress. "It's on the kitchen table. You might as well read it."

I walked into the house, feeling rather foolish. There was an official looking envelope on the table, with the letter still curled up inside it, so I pulled it out and smoothed it to read. "Dear Mr Dunbar, Regarding your application to the Arts Council for funding, we have looked over your case, and decided not to proceed with this matter this year. This decision is not open to appeal, though you may wait and submit a new proposal for a new project in time for next year's budget, for 2005." I stopped reading, feeling like I was eavesdropping on some private failure. No funding for 2004. And he couldn't reapply until 2005? Walking to the sink like an automaton, I filled the kettle and quietly made two cups of tea, before carrying them out to Jack, still sat staring at the woods with a shell-shocked expression on his face.

"I'm so sorry," I told him, handing him his tea. "I'm so, so sorry."

He shook his head slowly. "I tried to call you last night, to tell you that I'd get the decision today, but there was no answer. It was actually really nice of her to take the time out of her busy day to tell me in person, soften the blow. I appreciated that. But... it's over, Lucy, this is the end."

I placed my hand firmly on his knee, though all thoughts of sex had gone out of my head the moment I'd seen Mary Worthington's prune-like pout. "It's not over, Jack. We can sort things out, we can put our relationship back together."

Jack looked at me as if I were completely stupid. "Well, I'm glad to hear that you've decided to have confidence in our marriage again, but I wasn't talking about us. I was talking about me. My career. It's over. That's the end. That was my last hope, and now it's gone."

"Don't be absurd, Jack. Take a year out. Don't do any shows or exhibits. Just sit out here and look at the forest - isn't it beautiful out here? You can take a year out, think up some new ideas, and resubmit again in 2005."

"No." He shook his head resolutely. "I'm done."

"You can't just give up, Jack. People loved your work. I was talking to a friend just yesterday who told me how much he loved and was inspired by Neon Leakage. You can't just give up."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "What friend? You don't have friends who are into art."

I closed my eyes and swallowed. It was time to come clean. How much of my ridiculous reaction to Mary Worthington had been a guilty conscience? No, I had to tell Jack. Perhaps the knowledge that I had faced, and resisted temptation, and chosen to come home to him, perhaps that would inspire his confidence and get his creative juices flowing again. "I have a confession to make, Jack."

He sucked at his tea, though his eyes didn't seem focused on anything in particular. "I'm listening."

"That internet forum you hate, the Loophole. I had a friend on there. A special friend, someone I got really close to online. Because, well, I guess because he was really into art, and into music, and he was just so encouraging and enthusiastic. I really responded to that. I really needed it." Jack said nothing, he just sipped his tea and stared into space. "So I went to meet up with him. Yesterday. And this friend, who was so encouraging about my music - and about your art - he turned out to be..." I took a deep breath. "He turned out to be Thom Yorke, the rock star, of Radiohead, posting on my forum under an assumed name." There, that had been the improbable part that I still couldn't entirely believe - now to get to the part about the kissing and the making out, and about how I had chosen Jack over a night of rampant sex with Thom Yorke, the rock star.

Jack's eyes suddenly lit up, like someone had flicked a switch in his back. "Thom Yorke from Radiohead?"

"Yes, I know, it sounds ridiculous and improbable, but..."

"Oh my god, Lucy, this is brilliant. You're brilliant." Leaning forward, he kissed my forehead. "You've got to get him round here."

"I can't, they're on tour."

"When they get off tour - they're from Oxford, aren't they? That's only an hour away by car. Invite him round here. If he's interested in my work... fuck, I could get back into doing design for rock bands. Album covers, stage sets, lighting design, all that jazz. I did it before I got into the gallery racket, I can do it again."

"Jack, they already have someone who does their art. And they've been working with the same lighting designer for, like, five years now."

"That just means that they're probably ready for someone new. I could build them an electrified stageset, a giant faraday cage, throw out thousands of megawatts of electricity..."

"I don't know. They're really into energy conservation and green living..."

"Don't be so negative, Luce. Oh, the plans I could come up with. You have got to cultivate this friendship, Lucy. For my sake. I know you're funny about personal contacts and you have your ethics about 'using people' or whatever, but for once in your life, please, can you just do something for me, and pursue this contact. Make friends with the bloke. Get him round."

"Jack, I don't know that that's such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because..." I lost my nerve. The way that Jack was suddenly fired up again, the old light shining in his eyes, it reminded me of the man that I had married. But, I had to say something. "Some of the things he's said, I think... I know it sounds ridiculously arrogant, but I think he has some kind of a crush on me."

"Even better, Lucy. Flirt with him. Use your feminine wiles if you have to. Hell, I would if I were in the situation. Reel this guy in, get him interested and get him signed up. For the love of god, if you do anything for me, Lucy, help me make this contact."

I wanted to cry. I hadn't slept in so long, and the emotions of the past few days were catching up with me. How on earth could I say no to Jack when this was the first thing that he'd showed any interest in, in, well, years? But using my feminine wiles, to flirt with Thom, to lead him on, when I knew how emotionally vulnerable he was, how much he trusted me? I couldn't do it.

 

\-----

 

I had to go back to London, to work my three days at the bank, but this time I was loathe to leave the green lanes and intermittent phone reception of deepest Wiltshire. It was, actually, the internet that I couldn't face. The thing I had once loved so much, had used as a refuge and a sanctuary from the troubles of my life - it had now become the site of my troubles.

As Jack dropped me off at Swindon Station, with a kiss and explicit instructions to keep in touch with Thom as much as I could, I felt the buzz of messages dropping into my Blackberry's inbox. Of course they were from Furious - though I couldn't quite bring myself to change the name on the contact to Thom. He said he'd spoken to their management, and the Japanese promoters, and everyone was incredibly excited at the prospect of having the mysterious Axiom N Atom come along for such prestigious dates. I skimmed the emails, then read them again, twice, scouting for any sign of the sexual chemistry, the delicious erotic charge that steamed up that night in Nottingham, but they were factual, almost dry, apart from his usual madcap musical enthusiasm. Whatever it was, that there had been between us, it was over. Time to wake up and face the music.

Work was a mess. I had let it all slide, seriously, and the data packets were all backed up in a terrible snarl. The sys admin snapped at me, and the other programmers seemed to be avoiding me. My contract was up for renewal, just before Christmas. It had been rolling over for several years now, but this year, no one was saying anything about renewing it, and given the way that Interstep Records were starting to take off, I wasn't sure I really wanted them to.

The Loophole was... well, the Loophole was just weird. SleepFuriously was understandably absent, and I found myself struggling to get back into the stream of things. Fuelled by the series of meetups around the tour, the volume was high, about twice as much traffic as usual, as people chatted endlessly with friends who had moved beyond being just names on the screen, into being names and faces and actual IRL friendships. Windowlicker and PrincessTelex appeared, astonishingly, to be dating, and had a whole thread of love where they held court. Alliances had been formed, and the lines of allegiance reshaped - for just as Allen and BearHunt had buried the hatchet, Adie and Joe seemed to have started some arcane beef. Windowlicker, who had definitely got some kind of hero-worship thing going on with Adie and the whole Croydon Massive, had started a "grime night" at his college - and Adie, rather than being flattered, had actually been outraged that Joe had co-opted his and his mates' music as some kind of badge of cool for his posh cronies at an expensive Public School. But in all the noise and chatter, only one person had thought to ask that most important of questions.

 

> LOOPHOLE FORUM GENERAL CHAT THREAD DEC-03
> 
>  
> 
> **MizzTing** : So what I really want to know is, did Eyesore ever get to meet up with Furious? The Forum has been oddly silent on the issue, and I am Curious, Orange.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : They definitely met, in Nottingham. That whole night might be a bit of a blur of too much alcohol and excitement but I remember Jonny coming out to get her, and take her backstage.
> 
> **ItalianMarco** : Yes, this is what happened. My girlfriend and myself, we have autographs.
> 
> **MizzTing** : but Where? Is? Eyesore? Did Furious *eat* her? Have they eloped together or what? Even if they did, the Radiohead tour is over, they should have resurfaced by now.
> 
> **CryingMinotaur** : Stop asking questions, MizzTing. Maybe things didn't go very well. Maybe they didn't get on, and they're too embarrassed to talk about it. We don't want to pressure them.
> 
> **MizzTing** : I just want to know what happened! Maybe Jonny ate Eyesore.
> 
> **Jonny** : I couldn't possibly have eaten Eyesore, I'm a vegetarian. Eating people is wrong.
> 
> **MizzTing** : It's only Thom that eats people alive, then? ("I will eat you alive, I will eat you alive, there'll be no more lies, there'll be no more lies.")
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can't imagine a big girl's blouse like Thom ever eating anyone. He's very nice, though. Furious was very nice. Everything is fine, I've just been out in the land of no internet connection with my husband. Thanks for the concern, Tingie, we're all fine.
> 
> **MizzTing** : EYESORE!!!! You met Thom E then? And you managed to avoid raping him?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm not exactly cool with rape jokes, Tingie. But it was all fine.
> 
> **MizzTing** : But tell us! Who is Furious?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : He's a very bad man. As are you, Jonny. I have *not* forgiven you for that.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Forgiven him for what? Come on! Details! I'm dying, here!
> 
> **Jonny** : I'm sorry, it seemed like the only way to get you and Thom to talk. Can you forgive me?
> 
> **MizzTing** : WHAT!??!! What happened? I'm getting mental visions of Jonny physically locking Eyesore in a room and literally throwing Thom Yorke at her, like picking him up and tossing him. Australian dwarf-throwing stylee or something.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You don't know the half of it.
> 
> **Jonny** : You'll have had lots of time to forgive me by Japan, won't you?

 

My email inbox pinged. So it seemed that although SleepFuriously didn't post to the forum any more, he certainly used it to check when I was online. But I pried him off the forum and got him to log onto instant messaging.

 

> **SleepFuriously** : did u get home alright? i was worried when i didn't hear from you
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I went to Wiltshire for a couple of days, to spend some time with Jack.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : oh i am glad to hear that. u still out here?
> 
> **LonelyisAnEyesore** : No, back in London. But I fear you may be right about the creative block thing. He had some bad news while I was out there.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : that's a shame, i wanted to see you if you were out here. i'm still rattling round the house all by myself. we have two more television appearances to do, then i'm flying out to italy to spend xmas with my girlfriend
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I would have thought she'd come home for Christmas?
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : she's submitting her thesis in june so she wants to spend as much time out there doing research as possible. but i thought maybe i could catch you before i left.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Thom, look, we have to talk.
> 
> **SleepFuriously** : ok, fine. get off the intenet and i'll ring u

 

I jumped when the phone rang. I was used to his name one my computer, but I was not used to the sound of Thom's voice, right in my ear.

"Hey, how are you?" His voice was soft, concerned, but it sounded like he was smiling.

"I'm OK," I sighed, twining the phone cord round my fingers, half wishing I could twine them in his hair instead. It was very sexy, the way I could hear him breathing in my ear. But then I tried to remind myself of Jack. "Things are slightly better with Jack, too. I think you might have been right, about the creative block thing. And I think he's finding it harder, out on that residency in Wiltshire, than he had expected."

"When are you out in Wiltshire again? I want to take you to lunch. I know a little pub, right out in the country, on the Thames, that you would love." He seemed not to have even heard me about Jack.

"Look, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. I told Jack about you..."

"Oh, shit." The edge of blind panic creeping into his voice.

"Well, not everything, obviously. But I told him that I had met you, and that we'd got friendly. And he wanted me to invite you out to the cottage, maybe for dinner." I paused, listening to Thom's breaths going very ragged on the other end.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I think, actually, it would be a good reality check - for you, and for me - for you to meet him." I could not believe I was actually able to say that as calmly as I did, but of course Thom couldn't see the fear and the doubt in my eyes.

"He's not going to beat the shit out of me?"

"Why would he do that?"

"Because, honestly, most men don't take kindly to other men snogging their wives."

"I certainly haven't been stupid enough to tell him that, but if you want to inform him, that's your business," I almost snapped.

"I see." A slightly hurt, little boy lost tone had crept into his voice.

"Thom, how else do we close the box, how else do we get the lid back on this, except for you to see me, my marriage, and how normal it all is? If we're going to work together, if we're going to tour together - and you might want to tell Jonny to try and keep a lid on it, on the forum, for now? - then we have got to try and contain this."

"You think of me as a problem, that needs to be contained now?"

"No! I think of you as a lovely, beautiful person that I want to have in my life. But as a real person, a real human being, not this crazy, fantasy internet crush."

He sighed deeply. "OK, yeah, you're right. I'll come. How's... how's Sunday? Pub lunch, afternoon television, normal as you like."

I took a deep breath, feeling my stomach going as wobbly as one of Adie's basslines. "I think that would be good. I'll check with Jack, but I'm sure it'll be fine." I paused, wondering if I should at least try to warn him about Jack's plans. I had sworn loyalty to Jack, but at the same time, my heart tugged for Thom. I didn't want him feeling like he was walking into a trap, but at the same time, I felt like I had to prime him, as if Jack was some kind of invalid, and visitors had to be warned what to expect. "And look, Thom. Be gentle with Jack, alright?"

"It's not him that has to worry about me." His voice was guarded, almost suspicious.

"No, I meant..." I took a deep breath. "I meant, he's just had some very bad news from the Arts Council. His funding is gone, and he was gutted by the decision. He had some mad idea about maybe working for Radiohead, so please don't take it the wrong way if he brings it up."

"I see." Again, that tone of suspicion, but then he brightened. "Look, I like Jack's work. I always have. I'll see what we can do. Perhaps we can get him  a proposal for a video, something like that."

"Thank you." I almost moaned with relief. Thom had been warned, in a way that didn't compromise my loyalty to Jack. "I'll see you Sunday, then?"


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Thom Yorke, quite predictably, but very emphatically, Do Not Get Along.

In retrospect, it was an awful idea, from the start. I should have known it would go wrong, when Jack started fussing about my clothes again. I had tried to dress demurely, comfortable jeans, a thick, shapeless jumper, but Jack frowned at my outfit as I came downstairs. "Can't you dress up a bit more than that?" he demanded, though I noted that he was still dressed quite casually, in his usual beatnik-esque black clothes.

"Well, I didn't exactly bring any of my interview suits," I shrugged.

"No. Can't you put on anything a bit more... saucy. Your Greek nymph dress - did you bring that? You always look really good in that."

"For a country pub? In December?" I sputtered, remembering the disapproving glances he'd given me over my slightly less revealing outfit the last time we'd gone for a drink in Marlborough. "I'll freeze. Besides, what on earth do you want me looking saucy for?"

"Look, I may have almost nothing, compared to all these successful people, but the one thing I do have is an attractive wife. For the love of god, please, let me enjoy that one thing." I glared at him, feeling relegated to the status of object, of appendage, but the next thing out of his mouth was even worse. "Besides, if he fancies my wife, that might make him feel guilty enough to shoot me a commission." An evil chuckle. "Anyway, there's always blackmail."

I glared at him, but he grinned widely.

"I'm only joking my dear. But go and change, quick."

Running upstairs, I put the Grecian dress on, and stared at myself in the mirror. Goose bumps were not a particularly good look, so I ended up pairing it with thick winter tights, an awkward combination that seemed to highlight, rather than distract from the brevity of the dress's cut. But hearing the crunch of tyres on gravel, I realised that it was too late to change back - a shiny looking silver hybrid with impeccably good ecological credentials was pulling into the yard. That had to be Thom.

I ran the brush through my hair, then rushed downstairs, but Thom was already in the house. He and Jack had introduced themselves, and I don't know what had passed between them, but they just seemed to have got off on the wrong foot, and never quite recovered.

"Ah, here is my beautiful wife," Jack announced gruffly as I entered the kitchen, spying Thom bristling defensively by the back door. Thom's whole face lit up when he saw me, his mouth turning up into a helpless smile, but as his eyes swept down across my body, taking in the skimpy outfit, my breasts almost entirely on display, my nipples erect from the cold, the short, slightly ruffled skirt clinging to my thighs with winter static, his face creased, first with palpable desire, and then with fear.

"Lucy," he managed to choke, as Jack reached out and hugged me, before letting his arm slide down my back, coming to rest on one buttock, giving it an almost challenging squeeze, as if to say, look all you want, but all this is mine. I felt awful, like a piece of meat between two dogs, as Thom's face darkened and Jack's smile grew fierce with cruelty.

"We have reservations for the Badger - but do you want a quick tour of the grounds?" Jack offered. "The house isn't much, but the woods are beautiful, even this time of year."

"A brief walk would be lovely," Thom agreed, looking desperate to get out of the house.

I dug around and located a huge fleece of Jack's, that came down almost to my knees, and a pair of wellies that made my outfit even more outlandish, as Thom scrabbled with the door and let himself out into the brisk cold. He, at least, was dressed appropriately for the weather - thick jeans, black boots, a rustic looking sweater over a white button-down shirt, and a lovely, warm, homely looking tweed jacket over the top. With a flat cap pulled down over one eye, he could have been one of the farmers back in the village, surveying his fields. Jack, by contrast, looked urban, underdressed, and completely out of place - though not nearly as out of place as I felt, yomping through mud in that dress. I stumbled slightly, crossing the tiny brook that flowed down a channel through the middle of the yard during winter, and it was Thom who caught and steadied me, smiling at me hopelessly as he guided me across. Instead of glowering, as I'd expected, Jack grinned, pleased.

But as we crossed the yard, Thom accidentally made a terrible mistake. There was no way he could have known, but as soon as it was out of his mouth, I knew how Jack would take it. There was an old washing rack out in the garden - as Thom caught sight of it, he nodded and smiled towards Jack. "It's funny, that kind of reminds me of your old work, the Wire Cathedral." It was an offhand joke of a comment - Thom could never have known that it was the central diss of a bad review in ArtForum Magazine that Jack had never entirely forgotten. "So what have you been working on recently? Lucy says this is a prestigious residency. Have you been having lots of inspiration out here? It's been far too long since I saw a really good Dunbar exhibition in a gallery."

He meant it as a compliment, I knew that he did. Just some kind of shop talk, the chatter of one artist to another, acknowledging the block, but enquiring gently if he was over it. But of course Jack didn't take it that way, coming so soon after the laundry rack quip. He bristled, but then tried to be gracious, steering the conversation back to the topic of album art. "Gallery shows are overrated. Everyone knows the real nitty gritty of boundary pushing goes on in design."

"Yeah, I always thought that, too," Thom agreed. "I studied design at art school - wasn't very good at it, mind, but I did think it was still the place where the most talent went. Less concept, more good art. Oh, sorry, no offence - I know you're a conceptual artist and all."

That was the worst insult he could possibly have said to Jack - Jack thought of Conceptual Artists as pondscum an evolutionary step even below Art Students, who he loathed with an almost inhuman passion. "Art school," he repeated, drawing the syllables out in a sneer. "So where'd you go? To school, then?"

I didn't know if Jack was just trying to change the subject to a nice, fairly neutral middle class pissing competition, or if he was actually going for Thom's pride, but both their backs were up. "To school? Abingdon," Thom confessed spikily. "And then Exeter, for art school."

"Exeter." Jack shrugged. "Never heard of it. I'm a Westminster boy. Westminster and then Cambridge - I read Maths at Cambridge. Glad of it, too. Can't fucking stand art students - none of this conceptual art bullshit for me. Hard science and maths is where it's at."

"Look," I finally intruded, trying to place myself bodily between them and almost slipping on the mud. "It's really mucky out here. Shall we skip the woods and head off to a nice, warm, dry pub? I'm getting very peckish."

Thom drove us to the Badger in his bright, shiny new Hybrid, which he made rather an uncharacteristic fuss over, comparing its excellent mileage and performance favourably to the slightly rusted Volvo at the end of the drive. So he could actually do that male territorial pissing competition thing, too. I didn't like it on him, it seemed ugly, and very unlike him. But as he fiddled with the CD player of the car, turning the volume up to show off his speakers, it hit me like a blow to the chest what album he had been listening to on the way over. " _Now what am I supposed to do, when I want you in my world? How can I want you for myself, when I'm already someone else's girl_?" Jack groaned and made a face, shooting a look at me that showed exactly what he thought of Thom's taste in music, but all I could think of was that night in the hotel room in Nottingham. " _See, ain't nothing wrong with dreaming, boy don't get me wrong.  Cause every time I see you, I know just how strong... that my love is..._ " Thom snapped the music off again, switching to the radio, and the reassuring buzz of Radio 4 filled the car.

The pub, however, was lovely - a good, old fashioned country pub, warm and cosy, with seemingly endless nooks and crannies round endless corners. We had a good table, reserved for us - a snug inglenook near the fire, though I tried to keep the oversized fleece buttoned up, feeling still very awkward about my dress. 

Thom looked the menu up and down, then smiled with approval. "They have vegan nutroast. Brilliant, I'll have that, then. With Yorkshire pudding and roast veg," he nodded, and smiled at me.

I smiled back at him encouragingly. I wasn't vegan by any stretch of the imagination, but it just seemed polite to respect your guest's beliefs. "I'll have the nutroast as well, then. It looks delicious."

"Can we just make sure that the gravy is vegetarian, though?" Thom worried, craning his head to try to look through into the kitchen, but it was out of sight behind several bends.

"Vegetarian gravy? A nonsense," sputtered Jack, who either had not caught on, or was just doing it deliberately to be a nuisance. "I'm having roast beef, rare, oozing with blood, and I want proper dripping in my gravy."

Thom glared at Jack in outright disgust for the briefest of moments, then a competitive smile twisted his lips. "Rare? Are you sure about that? You know there's been foot and mouth in this part of the country."

A splash of panic flashed across Jack's face. We'd all seen the reports on the telly, but he was clearly weighing up his chances. "Are you sure about that? This place is supposed to be all locally sourced and organic."

"Organic farms have been some of the worst hit," Thom replied with a malicious sneer. "Because the animals aren't kept penned up in cages the size of this table, and drip-fed on antibiotics, the disease just rips right through the herd." He seemed to almost be enjoying the queasy look on Jack's face.

"I suppose I'll get the roast lamb, then."

"Foot and mouth affects sheep, too," Thom told him, almost gaily. "You might be OK with the pork, though." A heartbeat's pause. "There has been an outbreak of distemper, though. Do pigs get distemper, or just dogs and cats? I'm sure they'll cook you up a nice organic cat-roast if you ask nicely."

Jack glared back. Now he was convinced that Thom was just fucking with him. "I'll have the beef, I'll just ask to have it well-cooked."

"Well, that'll do for the foot and mouth, but if there's BSE about, well, prions will survive even the highest temperatures," Thom announced with a crooked grin. "But don't let me stop you."

Had it been Jack tormenting one of his friends, I'd have laid my hand gently over his, and told him to back off, but for once, Thom seemed to have the upper hand. I threw him a desperate glance, and he toned down his leer to a mere smirk, and Jack stood up. "Right. I'm going to order at the bar. Anyone want any drinks while I'm up? Oh wait, sorry, you can't, Thom, you're driving," he retorted pointedly.

"Oh, I won't be driving home for an hour or so yet. I'll have a pint of Badger's Golden Glory," he shrugged, grinning triumphantly at Jack's retreating back as he headed for the bar.

Now that Jack was gone, I looked over at Thom and pouted reproachfully. "Thom. Was that really necessary?"

His face was instant contrition. "Oh god, I'm sorry. Chaps like that, they just really get my back up."

"Like what?" I frowned, pointedly. The whole afternoon was seeming like a terrible mistake - I didn't want to start losing my respect for Thom now as well.

"Like... Public School Boys." I was about to point out that he would include himself in this incrimination, but he beat me to it. "Look, I know that sounds hypocritical, given I fucking well went to one. But I know the type intimately, because of it. The ones who always want to make a competition of everything. The ones who want to rub it in your face that they went to Cambridge when they haven't even _heard_ of your Uni. The ones who make it a contest that you only went to Abingdon when they went to Westminster. Though if I said I'd gone to Westminster, I bet he'd have said he went to Eton. I fucking hate it, that constant one-upmanship. It's the thing I hate most in the world about being middle class."

"So does Jack, normally. You two have got to stop rubbing each other the wrong way, he is not usually like this." I felt the desperate need to defend my husband in front of Thom, mainly to explain why I was still with him, and not running off after Thom. "Did it dawn on you that he might be feeling slightly insecure?"

"Insecure? That smug..." He let the last word hang unsaid.

"Yes, well, you're a successful rock star, and he's not exactly been doing a lot lately. You said it yourself, creative block. It eats you alive, if you let it." As I looked up towards the bar, I noticed that Jack had ordered an extra whiskey, which he downed at the bar as he waited for our pints to be pulled. So he was just going to get rat-arsed, was he? I felt suddenly almost ashamed of him. As my face flushed, the heat of the fire got to me, and I had to push the fleece off my shoulders.

"I'm sorry." Thom looked almost contrite, but then his words trailed off, as his eyes went up and down my body, staring at my breasts with almost palpable desire for the fraction of a second before forcibly dragging his gaze upwards, to look into my face. "How... how are you? You look good. I mean... shit! No! No, I mean you look well. Healthy."

"Thanks. I am good." I straightened my back, trying not to blush. For some reason, it didn't actually bother me, when Thom stared at my tits like that. For a terrible moment, I had a sudden vision, and I was swept with the uncontrollable urge to reach into the folds of my dress, extract one of my breasts and hold it towards him, pushing it into his mouth like a ripe fruit, letting him tease my nipple erect with the action of that wonderful tongue. At that, I blushed furiously and looked down, unable to meet his gaze, though as I tried to look back at his face, I found my sight distracted by his plump lips, like a pair of strawberries nestled in the gingery straw of his facial stubble. "You look well. Are you growing a beard?"

It was a ridiculous question to ask, so shallow after all the talk of music and art and aesthetics, but it was all I could think to say. But Thom beamed, raising his hand to his chin and scratching thoughtfully. "Yeah, well, I couldn't be arsed shaving after I got off tour. Do you like it?"

"Yes. It suits you. I think it looks distinguished." I had the urge to reach out and touch it, dragging my fingers against the grain to feel the rough burr of it. Half of me wished that Jack would come back to the table, immediately, to stop this edge of flirtation, but the other half of me wished he would go away and never come back, leaving us to start making out by the fire. Thom's eyes had slid down again, and though he was trying so obviously not to stare, his gaze was clearly drawn by the folds of my dress, the veiled orbs nestled within. The silence that fell over the table seemed thick with tension, almost electric, as we stared at one another, remembering kisses and caresses that had so recently been exchanged. Nothing had changed. I still wanted him. Furious the scruffy roadie, or Furious the distinguished looking English farmer.

"So." His voice sounded strained, as if he were making a vast effort to drag conversation up fro the bottom of his brain. "Have you heard the news about Apple?"

"What news about Apple?" I jerked my eyes away from his lips, disoriented, just as I'd been fantasising about nibbling on them.

"They're developing a new recording suite for beginners, based on Logic. Something called GarageBand, ironically. Supposedly going to be bundled with the standard set of Mac applications in a year or two. It'll be a great leveller... means that anyone... with a... Mac or a powerbook... will be able to... program their own..." His voice grew short, breathy, and distracted. "Is it warm in here, or is it just me?"

"It is very warm in here. We're right by the fire." He shifted uncomfortably, removing another layer of tweed and piling it behind him on the windowsill.

"Look, I'm sorry," he finally sputtered. "I need the loo. It was a rather long drive, over from Oxford and... shit. Sorry." He stood up, abruptly and almost bolted from the table.

Jack reappeared, carrying three pints of ale, and arranged them about the table. "Where's he gone, your little mate?"

I shook my head and pointed towards the passage back into the bowels of the building, still not entirely trusting myself to speak. Grasping for my pint, I sucked at it thirstily, praying for the drunkenness to get through the evening, if my fortitude would fail me. "Look, I'm sorry, I need the loo," I finally sighed, in subconscious echo of Thom's words, and excused myself from the table. Swaying across the room in my stupid dress, I felt the looks of men all around me, but did my best to ignore them. I hated it when anyone except Thom looked at me that way. A short corridor, round a corner, and at least I was out of sight, though the toilets seemed to be on the complete other side of the building. But as I rounded another corner into a very narrow passage, I saw a familiar figure leaning against the wall, up ahead of me. For a moment, I just thought, hmm, well, that's odd, there's never normally a queue for the gents, but then something about the way he was standing struck me as odd. He was slumped against the wall, leaning back, the top of his head against the wall, his hips pushed forwards as if carrying a great weight. And then as I grew closer, without meaning to, I saw the swelling in his jeans.

"Oh my god." He flushed deep crimson with embarrassment and tried to straighten up, as I tried to drag my eyes away from his trousers, but we had both seen. The passage was so narrow we could barely both stand in it, opposite one another. Again, I was struck with the overwhelming urge to reach into my dress, extract my breasts and offer them to him. Or worse, to lunge forward and press myself against him, feeling that swelling expanding up between my legs as I wrapped myself around him. I wanted him to push me back, to slam me up against the wall and just take me, there, in the hall of that cosy country pub. I wanted to feel him, labouring between my thighs, wanted his mouth against mine, his hands on my breasts and his hips grinding against me.

I couldn't bear it, looking into his eyes with such longing. To act was unbearable, but to not act was somehow even worse. Something broke the silence, the click of a lock, and a man emerged from the gents. Thom let out a tiny whimper, then bolted for the door and locked himself inside. I tried the lock of the ladies - it was free - then slipped inside and locked the door behind me. Leaning back against the wall, I tried to catch my breath, even as I slipped my hand inside my dress, and felt for my nipples, rubbing them to life exactly the way I'd wanted Thom to do, remembering that brief tussle in the hotel room in Nottingham. It wasn't enough. I moved my other hand lower, pushed the folds of my dress out of the way, slipped my hand gently under the waistband of my tights, pushed my fingers deep between the slick, wet folds of my vulva, and started to rub. Hard.

It's almost painful to remember the embarrassment of the rest of the dinner. When I finally returned to the table, almost fifteen minutes later, much calmer, but slightly shame-faced, I found that our food had arrived, and Thom and Jack were cautiously growling at one another over the top of it, circling each other in a vicious conversation like a pair of wild dogs. I smiled sweetly, first at Jack, then at Thom, then proceeded to drown the rest of my beer before starting on my food.

A waitress brought another pint when she checked that our food was alright. Both Jack and I were intent on our separate missions to get completely drunk, while poor Thom, stuck with the driving, had to remain pathetically sober. It wasn't even the thinly veiled vitriol with which he eyed Jack, it was the distinct look of pity with which he looked at me. I had been prepared for almost anything from Thom - anger, defensiveness, even that competitive male aggression - but the pity in his eyes, that I couldn't bear.

The dinner was not a success. The men, not even content to compete with each other, decided to use me as a conversational volleyball, each trying to trap me in a conversation that excluded the other. And I had to admit, as Jack got steadily drunker, I was finding Thom's talk just plain easier to follow, let alone more interesting. The meal seemed to drag on, as I gave up eating and just pushed my nut roast around my plate. Thom ate lightly, picking at his roast potatoes while avoiding carrots and onions, but Jack made a point of shovelling every last ounce of animal flesh into his mouth. By the end of the dinner, I almost hated both of them.

Thom drove us home in silence, as Jack lay sprawled on the back seat, too drunk to give directions. I sat up front, trying very hard to remember the way, taking us all the way in to Marlborough before guiding us back out again on the road I knew. But Thom didn't seem to mind, squinting out at the scenery around us, expressing curious surprise as each of Wiltshire's famous White Horses came into view over another rise in the chalk. As we stopped at a lone traffic light in a tiny village, he glanced in the mirror, then surreptitiously moved his hand from the gearshift between us, and dropped his hand onto my own, covering me with a quick pat and a squeeze. Looking at me sideways, he mouthed something I didn't quite catch, then turned back to the road as the light changed back to green, shooting off down the road before I could ask him to repeat himself.

Jack made a display of inviting Thom in for a cup of tea, which he mercifully declined, then went in and collapsed in a sofa. I kissed Thom quickly, on the cheek, then fled, but Jack's laughter followed me up the stairs. "All in all, I thought that went quite well," he scoffed.

I turned and retraced my steps, standing at the door to the parlour, just staring at the drunken wreck of my husband. I'd so much wanted to be proud of him, wanted Thom to see what I loved in him, but I struggled to see it myself, now. "Are you completely fucking mad?"

Jack exploded with laughter. "That man is an arrogant little piss-ant. I hate those kind of boys, I have done since public school. Coddled little mummy's boys, always trying to pretend that they're cleverer than you with their poetry and their ponies and their pretensions. Fuck the load of them, toadying little fag-ends warming the prefects' toilet seats. I'm getting out of art because I don't want to deal, with fuckwits like that Thom Yorke of yours, ever again."

As I looked him in the face, I realised that it was nothing to do with Thom - our marriage was over. I wanted to throw it back in his face, snarl back _You're getting out of art because you're a washed-up talentless hack who hasn't had a good idea in so long that you waste your whole energy being angry at people who just get on with things instead of getting your own life in order._ But I shook my head and said nothing.

I stayed, that one last night, because I was too tired to make my way to the station. I even let Jack fuck me one last time, though it took two tumblers of whiskey to be able to stomach it. I wanted to remember this, the weight of his body on mine, the carelessness with which he helped himself to my body, the stink of his whiskey in my face, the clumsiness of his drunken groping. And I lay awake all that night, listening to the sound of his snoring, a dead weight beside me in the bed. He takes me for granted, I thought to myself, then his words came flooding back to me. _You're my wife, Lucy, you're the one person I'm supposed to be able to take for granted._ And at that moment, I realised I actually hated him.

As soon as the sun rose, I packed my bags, scouring the house for the last of my things, then I walked down the long lane, and dialled a taxi from the telephone box in the centre of the village. I didn't say goodbye - I didn't trust myself to. Not that I thought I would let him tempt me back, but more that I was afraid I would lose control and tell him exactly what I really thought of him. Leave it. Let him blame me, let him blame Thom, let him blame whoever he liked, except himself. But when I thought of Thom, my heart clenched in my chest. I pulled out my Blackberry, and thought of texting him desperately, asking him to come and collect me at the station, and take me back to Oxford with him. But no, that was solving nothing - and just giving Jack ammunition. I was going to have to start thinking like a divorce lawyer now.

I told almost no one on the forum - I didn't even tell Adie, and I certainly didn't tell Allen, his wife and his 2 children seeming like a recrimination against my feckless ways. I didn't want to tell any of the men, in fact - I just didn't trust them not to draw the wrong conclusions. In fact, the only person I told was MizzTing, sending her a Private Message and my email address. She had, in passing, mentioned not just ex-lovers, but made reference to an ex husband or two a couple of times. If anyone knew how to get out of this tangle, it would be her.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : MizzTing, I'm sorry to bother you, but I think I need your help. Your help and your womanly advice.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Auntie Ting is here for you, my child. Now what makes me think that there is a young man named Furious at the bottom of this?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, you've got the wrong end of the stick. It's not actually about Furious at all, though yes, I did see him again yesterday. It's about Jack. I need to know how to file for divorce.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Jack? You're divorcing that handsome devil of a man? Well, handsome is as handsome does, I suppose. Furious must be one hell of a slab of roadie ass to have provoked this decision.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I know you don't believe me, but Furious is innocent in all this. We really are just friends. But he's the kind of friend that has shown me that I deserve so much better than the way that Jack treats me. If you can't help me, I'm going to have to go to Citizen's Advice.
> 
> **MizzTing** : OK, OK, I can help you out a bit, though I only know American and German divorce law, not British. But the two things I can tell you right now are: 1) get yourself your own bank account 2) get yourself your own lawyer. I might even say, get your own place, but I don't know who owns that fabulous flat of yours.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : We're already separated. He's in Wiltshire, I'm in the fabulous flat. But I don't have a right to it at all, it belongs to his family's company - that's how he was able to claim the dole for so long.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Bastard was claiming the dole while living in his daddy's posh flat? OK, now I fucking hate that guy. Like I said, I don't know English law, but if you've been married more than seven years, he might have to buy you out of the flat.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : He doesn't even have any money.
> 
> **MizzTing** : He doesn't, but his family sure does.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I don't want money out of this. I just want him, gone. Out of my life.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Easy to say now, when you're sitting in a posh flat in Bloomsbury, but when you're sleeping on a sofa in Interstep Towers, you might have different ideas. Keep it in mind.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy files for divorce from Jack.
> 
> And on New Years' Eve, Thom arrives to DJ secretly at Interstep's club night in Croydon, with Lucy, Adie and Kieran.

We got through the holidays, somehow, I didn't entirely know how. Well, the Interstep New Years party was one very big reason. Steve and Ollie had rented out an entire club down in Croydon, and invited everyone they knew to DJ - even I had been given a half hour slot, so Adie had decided to teach me how to DJ properly, with vinyl, on decks, beatmatching and all. Practising my technique, getting the segues perfect, it took a lot of concentration and a lot of time, but it gave me something to focus on that was not my collapsing romantic life.

Christmas itself, I spent at Jack's Mum's house, out in Putney. I still hadn't served divorce papers - I had decided to leave that particular bit of bad news until the new year - but smiling my way through Christmas dinner nearly killed me. I liked Jack's Mum, that was the worst part of it. I liked his family in general, the big sprawling group of them, mostly cousins, though, as Jack was an only child. The trains weren't running so there was no question of going home together - Jack snored in a single bed in his childhood bedroom while I tossed and turned on the sofa downstairs. It killed me to have to smile and thank his mother kindly, promising that we would come out for dinner in the new year, knowing that I would never make it. But Jack and I made it through the day, and as far as the train station without a fight, though he couldn't seem to accept that I really wanted him to go back to Wiltshire, and for me to stay in London without some kind of snarling recriminations.

"It's that fucking rock star, isn't it?" he snorted. "He's poisoned you against me."

I shook my head. "That fucking rock star is out in Italy with his fabulous girlfriend right now, so that's hardly something you can pin on him."

New Years beckoned, and I promised myself a new beginning, as I picked out one of the fabulous bootie-shaking outfits that the Croydon Massive had come to expect from me, and loaded a few dozen records into a canvas bag, and took the bus across town. 

I'd been invited to come down early, to Interstep Towers, for some kind of pre-party party where Jess and Kara (Ollie's and James' new girlfriends, though I could no more tell them apart than I could their boyfriends) were going to cook a big dinner, and then we were going to have some kind of girly hair and makeup session to get ready for the big night. I had never been much of a one for girly-girl stuff, to be honest, but I was actually looking forward to a hens' evening. I loved the lads, I had great fun with the lads, but in times of great change and emotional upheaval, I needed girlfriends. This was something that had been sadly missing in my life, since Jack had inevitably chased away all my female friends with the suspicion that they would lead me astray - and I resolved to do something about it.

Kara (smaller, darker, more hyperactive) answered the door and squealed with excitement when she saw me, throwing her arms around me like a long-lost sister. But mostly, it was my huge cloud of hair she was excited about. "I just finished my African Hair module in training college last semester," she begged. "Weaves, Ghana Braids and Dreads. Please let me practice on you..."

"There's no way I'm getting dreads," I hedged, even as Jess handed me a drink. Jess (the taller, blonder, and more laid-back of the pair) was a bartender in a dreadful City bar, and knew how to make every cocktail ever invented.

"Come on, your dreads would be even longer than Khama's. Like, down to your waist. It'd be well cool," Adie enthused.

"I'd be sacked if I turned up at the bank with dreadlocks down to my waist. Anyway, if you love dreads so much, you get 'em," I snorted, letting Kara push me into a kitchen chair and pull my hair out of its frizzy ponytail.

"I'm trying, mate, I'm trying," Adie sighed, tugging at his disappointing crop of hair before settling down to watch the process as Kara started to divide my hair into sections.

"Your hair is so beautifully thick, I think braids," Kara decided, tugging her comb through my snarls then spraying a fine mist of something coconut scented over my head to tease out the knots.

"So long as it's not fucking cornrows. I was humiliated when my Mum decided to send me to school in cornrows, back in the fucking 80s." But even as I protested, the feel of Kara's deft fingers working through my hair brought back warm memories of childhood, sitting in the kitchen, my mother rubbing some kind of scented oil into my hair to make it shine.

"Don't worry, I'll make you pretty," Kara assured me. "I got straight As on my course. I'll make all of us pretty. Even Aidan, if he keeps hanging around the kitchen with us."

"You keep your girly lotions and potions off me, I don't want to be made pretty," Adie protested, even as he tried to grab a spoonful of the dough that Jess working. From the vaguely herbal smell, I assumed it was not regular brownies that she was making.

"Come on, Aidan, don't you want to be pretty for the girls? It's high time you found a girlfriend, you know," Kara clucked.

"You should go out with my mate Gemma, she reckons you're well fit," Jess added. "Let Kara sort out your look, we'll get you a shag."

"What is this foolishness? You're worse than my sisters, you two are," Adie snorted.

"Leave him alone," I sighed. "Maybe he doesn't want a girlfriend. Maybe he's gay."

"I'm not gay!" Adie protested, outraged, but moderated his tone a moment later. "Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, mind." The liberal tone of the Loophole was really having an influence on him. "I'm just waiting for, y'know, someone special."

"Aw, that's sweet," Kara clucked. "You got anyone in mind?"

Adie's eyes went a bit misty. "Yeah, well, maybe. There's this one girl that... yeah, well. She's special, but she doesn't even know I'm alive."

"Coz I'm a creep..." I started to sing, in a teasing tone of voice.

"I'm a weirdo-o-oh. What the hell am I doing here?" Adie joined in. I'd never known he had such a pretty singing voice. We both started laughing and shared a private glance, one of those little moments of fandom, that shared code that only we got, and I was suddenly filled with a burst of warmth towards him, towards all my new friends.

"Adie, you're great. You're smart, you're talented, you're cute. Any girl would be lucky to have you. I'm serious," I told him, and it wasn't just the Malibu and Coke talking. Adie blushed deep crimson and looked down at his feet. "I'm sure someday the girl you like will recognise how great you are."

"Stop twisting around, or else your braids will go as wonky as Adie's beats," Kara swore, swatting me gently with the handle of her comb, and I had to turn away again.

It took hours to braid my hair. I had forgotten how long it took, even with Kara's practiced fingers flying across my scalp. But when I looked in the mirror, I was shocked by the sleek, sultry looking woman staring back. I had got so used to the curly mass of uncontrollable hair that I usually pulled back into a ponytail that I had forgotten how good a decent hairstyle could make me look. It seemed to completely change my face, heightening my already wide cheekbones - though that probably wasn't hindered by the dusting of makeup that Kara was now slapping on me. I looked - and felt - like an Egyptian princess. Shrieking with happiness, I hugged a rather surprised Kara and rushed upstairs to change into my dancing outfit. Watch out, world. I am single, and looking.

We ate dinner, then went over to the club in a huge gaggle, laughing and drinking on the tram, which appeared to be free for the evening, thanks to the magnanimity of Croydon Council. Even before the doors were officially opened, the place was buzzing with people, friends, DJs and assorted hangers on from the scene. Kara and Jess and I hung up balloons and tinsel and Christmas tree lights while the lads and the guest DJs nibbled at and grew giggly over the hash brownies. As the room warmed up, I took off my coat to cheers and catcalls, but laughed them off as I dragged my records up to the DJ booth. The backstage door kept opening and closing as more and more musicians and DJs - and a fair share of friends and liggers - made their way inside.

The door opened and I heard an intake of breath, an almost hauntingly familiar gasp, so I straightened up, realising how much of my body the dress was probably baring, and looked straight up into the impossibly blue eyes of Thom, the light from outside lighting up his hair and making his beard glow as if he had been dusted all over with Jess and Kara's tinsel. "It's started snowing out there," he explained, without taking his eyes off me. "It's going to be hell, driving back to Oxford tonight. I wonder if I can get a room at the Holiday Inn."

"What on earth are you doing here?" I looked him up and down, blinking. He was dressed so completely differently from the last time I'd seen him - combat pants, black t-shirt stencilled with graffiti, a ragged keffiyeh and a huge, oversized hoodie in a sort of woven linen colour, topped off with a black leather jacket - and yet he looked as completely natural in downtown Croydon as he had in deepest Wiltshire. And he gaped back at me, taking in the thigh-bearing dress and the sophisticated new hairstyle, his eyes lighting up with appreciation as he tried to stutter a reply.

"Your Adie invited me - he said I could DJ for a bit. He said he supposed that if we were going to tour together next year, we might as well get to know each other." Across the floor, Adie, stood up, gawping at Thom, even as Thom turned and waved towards him.

"And how on earth did he get hold of you?" I demanded, feeling distinctly uncomfortable that the various strands of my life were starting to interact with each other, without my knowledge or consent.

"Asked Kieran for his number," Adie shrugged apologetically, and shook Thom's hand, through the handshake ended up turning into a hug and an odd sort of chest bump. "How you doing, mate?"

"I didn't know we could invite people. Steve didn't tell me I could..."

"Aw, what, you'd have liked to have invited Furious?" Adie teased. "You probably still can." Thom merely smirked and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, biting his lower lip to keep his mirth in. "What?"

"Oh. Adie, did you not realise?" I tossed back, glaring at Thom before turning to face Adie. "By the way, this is Sleep Furiously. I just thought you should know that."

"Oh. My. God." Adie's face formed a perfect O of astonishment as he stared back and forth between Thom and me. Thom frowned at me with slight annoyance, as if I'd spoiled the punchline of a perfectly good joke for him, but then shrugged and smiled again. "Of course it was completely obvious all along," Adie backtracked, recovering his usual cocky attitude.

"Liar," I laughed. "You used to rip the piss out of Furious."

"Just friendly banter, right?" Adie shrugged, and quickly moved off. "No harm done. We're going to be tour buds, right?"

"Tour buds. Yes, no hard feelings." He smiled at Adie warmly, and this time, I believe him. "Look, can I buy you a drink?" Thom offered, pulling me away from the group.

"It's alright. We've got a massive rider," I shrugged, pulling him backstage and fishing a bottle of white wine out of a cooler filled with ice.

"How are you, I mean, really?" Thom enquired as soon as we were alone, looking down into my eyes with concern. "You look brilliant, but... I dunno, you seemed pretty unhappy the last time I saw you."

The hash brownie must have been kicking in, as I found myself throwing caution to the wind. "That night was kind of a last straw. I don't want to even think about it now, I just want to get drunk and dance, but... but on the third of January, the papers of the petition for divorce will be reaching Jack."

"You're getting a divorce?" Confusion, fear, and hope all struggled on his face. Thom's eyes and mouth were just so transparent, every emotion seemed to play right across them. "Is this... is this to do with me?"

I shook my head slowly. "No. Rest assured, it's nothing to do with you," I insisted, and I almost believed myself. "You saw how he was acting, at lunch that day. I'd like to say that was an aberration, but the truth is, it's always like that these days. Has been for years. I've tried so hard to be patient, to be understanding, but I can't go on like this."

"But you've been together something like 10 years. Surely that's worth not throwing away lightly?" His eyes were desperate, but his mouth was pulled tight, as if he was trying to hold something back.

"Trust me, I am not doing this lightly," I snapped back. "What's happened? You've always been so supportive of me. Are you going to support me through this or not?"

"Oh, Lucy, I am, I am." Reaching out, he rubbed his hand up and down my arm, then seemed to lose his reserve and wrapped me in his arms, pulling me towards him and engulfing me in a hug. There was something so reassuring about his hugs, the way he seemed to fold his whole body into it, pressing his face against the side of my head and not letting go until he was certain that I was ready. At first I rebelled against the embrace, but then I clung to him. It wasn't even a sexual hug, it was more just a hug passing love and total acceptance from his body to mine. Or maybe I really was coming up on the hash now. Slowly, I wriggled out of his grasp and turned away, filling two plastic cups with wine. "All the support you need. Are you OK for a place to live - and are you alright for money?"

"I'm fine. I'm the one with a job - and a record contract, remember?"

"Well, if you need anything, just ask. And I'm serious about the place to stay - I was thinking of going and spending some more time with my girlfriend in Italy until the tour starts again. The house-sitter has gone, my house in Oxford will be empty. You can stay there if you need to."

I didn't know why it felt so much like I'd been punched in the stomach, but it did. Of course I'd known about his girlfriend. I had never expected to leave Jack and have Furious just fall into my arms. And yet, it still felt like a disappointment. "Things are going well between you two?"

"Yes." The smile on his face was glorious, flushed with love. "I only booked a week out there with her, thinking she'd be really busy, but she's been making good progress on the writing. She thinks she might even submit early, and just spent the summer out there, on holiday."

I did my best to smile and look happy for him, but inside my heart sank. Really, Lucy, what had you been expecting? But before I could congratulate them, I heard my name called outside.

"Lucy, come on! You're on first! The doors are about to open, so get on the decks!"

"Alright, alright," I called back, trying to compose myself, then smiled at Thom. "Will you dance? Even if there's no one in the place . It'll make me feel a lot less nervous if someone is dancing when I DJ."

"Wild horses could not keep me away. So long as you promise to dance during mine."

I made my way back up to the decks and hauled out my vinyl, selecting my first tune carefully. Kraftwerk - Autobahn - I knew it was a bit of a risk, but I liked the energy, and it seemed to create a good vibe for people to walk into. But Adie kept hanging around, trying to flash his new cameraphone in my face. "What are you doing? Knock if off. You're in my way."

"But I'm live-blogging the whole set on the Loophole. Come on - three forum DJs in one night? Gotta be documented for posterity."

My mouth dropped open. "Oh no, Adie, you didn't say, did you..." I glanced across at Thom. "No one else knows he's Furious."

Adie's face fell. "Oh my god. I didn't even think. But I didn't say. I just said Thom was playing a set." But he quickly tried to recover himself. "But seriously, do you think it won't be all over the internet in about ten minutes, if Thom Yorke plays a secret DJ set? Come on..." We both looked over in his direction, and as Thom realised we were both staring at him, he made his way up to the booth.

"Is it my turn yet?" he asked with a hopeful grin.

"I am so sorry, mate," Adie muttered, as Thom looked between the two of us, confused.

Thom's faint eyebrows knitted in puzzlement until I explained. "Look, Adie has apparently just announced your DJ set on the forum."

"Aaaw," Thom sighed, but annoyance turned to resignation as he shrugged. "Oh well. If we get mobbed with Radiohead fans, you have bouncers, right?"

"I didn't say you were Furious, though," Adie protested guiltily.

"If you don't quit live-blogging the night, it's gonna come out sooner or later. I guess this means I'll have to leave the forum, or start posting under my own name again. Sleep Furiously will have retire," Thom sighed.

"You don't have to," I begged, glancing over at the record to make sure it was still playing - that was the good thing about twenty minute songs. Plenty of time to chat. "It's not like the moderators are going to kick you off."

"Oh, alright." Thom smiled, wiggling his arse insistently to the mechanical disco beat. "I suppose it's not often that you get three posters from one forum DJ-ing on the same night."

"Can I get a picture?" begged Adie, menacing us with the cameraphone again.

"Yeah, go on, then." conceded Thom, leaning in and wrapping his arm around Adie's waist as he held the camera up above us, all three of us laughing and grinning. The photo, with its severe flash and its odd angle, turned out to be oddly beautiful - I would have loved to remember the three of us forever that way. Thom, small and pretty and blond, his head tucked affectionately against Adie's chest, me on the other side, dark and slightly mysterious (I hoped), with Adie, tall and beautiful, with his bronze skin and his copper hair, between us like a guardian angel. Adie fiddled with his phone, and tried to show me something on the forum, but I shook my head and pushed him away. I wasn't going to look at it, the rest of the night. I had promised myself that as I switched off my blackberry and stuffed it deep into the inside pocket of my bag. Everybody I cared about was here.

I faded Autobahn out and faded in the crisp, machine-like trance of the Patrick Cowley remix of Donna Summer's I Feel Love. It was early doors, I could still get away with playing odd synth epics. I might even try to play some Future Sound of London next, a decision which got an enthusiastic thumbs up from the next guest in the door. Kieran arrived, grinning from ear to ear as he shook snow out of his unruly hair, and made his way up to the DJ booth, greeting Adie and I joyfully. Once Thom caught sight of him, that was it. Although he'd promised to dance to my set, he was back up in the DJ booth, gossiping and horsing around with Kieran. The two of them acted like a pair of schoolboys, as Thom seemed to draw the normally reserved Kieran out of his shell, and got him to robot dance behind the decks. I got in another couple of songs, then Adie claimed the headphones from me. I let the odd Steve Reich piece I'd been mixing with some tribal drumming fade out, and handed them over, reclaiming our bottle of wine from Thom.

"Don't get too drunk," Adie warned as he faded the tribal drumming into a Lovers Rock ballad. "Everyone's doing a slow early-hours set, and then another proper set as the evening wears on."

"Aw, good. Glad I brought my Max Roach records, then. I'll just hop on the decks after you, yeah, Adie?" asked Kieran, but Thom pushed between them like a child desperate not to be left out of the grown-ups' conversation.

"Step off, Kieran, get in the queue, I was here first," he giggled, though there was an affectionate tone beneath the banter that gave it a completely different spirit than the way he'd bantered viciously with Jack. It was hard to believe I'd ever been intimidated by him, the playful, unrestrained way that he joked with his friends.

The music was getting to me, slow and lazy and very sensual, and I wanted to dance, swinging my hips back and forth in time the tunes. I was very high, and slightly drunk, and the Lovers Rock was hitting me right in the heart, making me wish for a pair of strong arms around me and wide shoulders to lean on. Adie slipped an Aaliyah slow jam in the mix, and I felt my heart thumping in time with the beat. _Your love is a one in a million, it goes on and on and on. You give me a really good feeling, all day long._ I felt a tightening in my throat, exactly aligned with the longing in her voice. Leaving the boys to their chat, I slipped down onto the floor, found myself a quiet spot and started to move my hips to the lazy rhythm.

I turned around, and suddenly Thom was beside me, dancing close by, though he seemed afraid to come to close to me, let alone touch me. If I turned away slightly, he would come up close behind me, shuffling in a slow circle, but if I turned to him, he'd dip bashfully and dart away. It seemed absurd, to be dancing to this sultry music of longing and passion, and yet keep this distance between us, and yet still, I supposed I was as afraid as he was, that if I were to touch him at all, I would never ever stop.

But while Thom was otherwise occupied, Kieran jumped the queue and snuck onto the decks ahead of him, fading out the reggae and bringing up a long, slow, sinuous jazz piece, all vibraphone and stuttering hi-hats. I couldn't dance to jazz, so I made my way back to the booth, only to find Adie staring, horror-struck at his phone. He had logged back onto the forum, probably with the idea of putting the Furious cat among the pigeons, but he seemed disturbed by what he had read.

"Lucy," he called softly as I passed, snatching at my left hand, and staring at the bare finger, from which I'd removed my wedding ring only a few days earlier. "Are you really getting divorced?"

"Oh for fucks sake. Is nothing private on that forum any more?" My heart sank. So much for trusting MizzTing.

"Don't worry, it's not on the forum, it was in a private conversation. I didn't think we kept secrets from one another. But I can't believe you told PrincessTelex before you told me!"

"I didn't," I sighed, putting my hand to my forehead. So my private conversation with MizzTing had become a private conversation with Telexie had become a not so private conversation with Adie. And now half the internet seemed to know, even before my soon to be ex husband had been informed.

"I thought you and Jack were, like, forever."

"Yeah, so did I, once. But I don't really want to talk about it right now, I just want to get really stoned, and dance like there's no tomorrow."

Thom reappeared in the booth, his hips still pumping back and forth to the jazzy backbeat, and demanded the headphones back from Kieran, insisting that it was his turn. Kieran stepped back and started to roll a spliff - I had never quite been so grateful for his stash - as Thom lined up the next record. He picked up the tempo slightly, just as the club passed the threshold of fullness and merriness where people were started to spill onto the dance floor. Fading Hal Blaine into some Afrobeat, he swung his hips perilously close to the decks. Then a few minutes later, he readjusted the headphones, faded the Afrobeat into some Eno-era Talking Heads, then just when that started to boil over too hard, he nudged the tempo down again, into a shuffling Can track.

I stared, trying to cover my interest with a haze of potsmoke, amazed by Thom's ear for a good flow. There was no trainwrecking - like I had mismatched tempos, badly - he was as smooth as a professional. I hated to admit it, but it impressed me. Furious, a man so technically inept he couldn't tell an envelope filter from an LFO, was actually a credible DJ, his headphones draped half across his head, covering one ear with the cue track while he kept the other ear to the room. Kieran noticed me twitching and tapping my fingers in time to the beat, and moved over towards me, eyeing me gravely from under his dark mop of hair.

"Lucy. Do you want to dance?" he asked, in his quiet, serious, but gentle voice.

"Smooth, Kier, real smooth," Adie snorted from the sofa.

For a moment, I panicked. People in our gang didn't ask one another to dance, they just bundled onto the floor together. Was it a come-on or was he just stoned and over-serious? I had got so used to being just one of the lads, no one bothering me with their come-ons. Yet even if it was a come-on... oh, so what? This was something I was going to have to get used to. Dating, dancing, trying to work out if men were just offering to roll me a spliff, or something more.

"Yeah, alright." I took a fortifying gulp of the cool white wine to staunch the cottonmouth sensation of the pot, then skipped back down to the dance floor. Thom watched us go, his eyebrows arching into tiny O's of disappointment for a moment, before he shrugged and bent back down to his bag to try and pick the next record.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thom and a newly single Lucy find their decision to remain "just friends" severely tested as they are stranded in Croydon by a snowstorm.

Thom bumped up the BPM again as Kieran and I started to sway, throwing in the minimal groove of ESG's Dance, then a sinuous old house record I didn't recognise. The BPM edged higher, almost to the threshold of what I could still dance to, as if he were trying to prevent Kieran and I from dancing too close, but then Steve climbed to the DJ booth and cut in, bringing it back down to something that suited my stoned ears somewhat better. Steve would go in deep, I knew that, making the floor shake, pushing the bass response to the limit.

I turned, and Thom was behind me again, his face flushed with the pleasure of the music, but this time, when I moved towards him, he didn't move away. Kieran sighed and shrugged, realising that Thom was cutting in on him once more, then went off to find a drink backstage. I said nothing, just dancing wordless to the music, moving closer and closer to Thom until we were locked together, though not touching, just dancing in a strange locked step. It was almost like a game - he would spread his legs further apart for balance as he rocked back and forth to the bass, and I would dart between them, spin around as quickly as a gymnast, then dart away before he could react. Our hips were locked in synch, his moving forwards as I moved back - step, jump, skip, and then back again. The dance floor was growing ever more crowded, as Khama took over from Steve, rolling the bass vibrations up to another level, as he washed everything in waves of dubby echo, pushing us even closer together. Thom seemed to relax, letting the bass wash over him, a smile of ecstatic bliss across his face, eyes half closed, head tilted back, lips parted.

Someone lumbered past us - some drunken fool, forgetting to pace himself, too wasted too early, and Thom seized me by the wrist and pulled me out of the way. And yet somehow, he didn't let go afterwards, as the two of us looped around each other. I twirled like a ballerina as he held my hand above his head, then he pulled me close, wrapping his other hand around the small of my back, finally pulling me towards him, our bellies brushing together as we swayed. His face was so close to mine, the flashing lights sending shards of colour across his skin, highlighting the soft fuzz of his beard, one cheek bathed in red, the other in blue, a disco ball refracting light into a shower of silver across his face. The music was slower, deeper, more languid, or perhaps it was just my heart beating faster. Barely daring to breath, I found myself wrapping my arms around his neck and leaning my head against his chest.

Yes. This was what I'd wanted. We weren't moving, it was just the room spinning around us, Jess and Kara's christmas tree lights blinking softly in the background as the music lifted us and carried us. Thom's lips were against my cheek, nuzzling me softly, not even in a sexual way, just gently reassuring, his heart thumping in my ear like a bass drum. Never mind the weather. The snow could rage outside, but in here, with the bass piling up in mounds all around us, I felt warm and safe and happy. Someone was playing a slow jam, taking the tempo back down to give us dancers a break, and Erykah Badu's longing voice rolled out across the floor, over a deep club mix. " _Now what am I supposed to do, when I want you in my world? How can I want you for myself, when I'm already someone else's girl_?" The song seemed to follow us, everywhere we went.

I didn't want it to ever end. I didn't want to hear someone calling my name, and feel Thom guiltily pull away, withdrawing to a safe distance as Adie appeared, peering over the tops of dancing couples to try and find me. "Lucy! There you are. You ready to go again? Ollie's on now, then Devon Grockle, and then we're going to do the rota over again. Three songs each. Are you OK going on after Grockle, or do you want me to go before you?"

"Um." I blinked slowly, the hash and the sultry music making me feel very thick. "I don't know what to play."

"Come on, I'll help you," Thom offered, extending his hand and taking mine, pulling me back towards the booth. And then suddenly he was pawing through the records I'd brought, laughing at some and whistling at others until together we'd found a few things to play, old records I knew were objectively terrible, yet I loved so much, Loop Guru and Banco De Gaia. Another spliff went round, and another seemed to start up as soon as it was finished. The area behind the DJ booth had got very crowded, but one of Khama's friends seemed to be rolling just as fast as everyone could smoke. Khama was laughing his deep, rolling laugh and explaining to Steve how the frequencies of really deep sub-bass physically changed the structure of the brain, even as Steve was trying to explain that advanced technology was indistinguishable from magic, and music was the first and purest form of technology. I just laughed as the expression of puzzlement deepened on Thom's face. Yes, these were my friends - they were all bonkers, but I loved them anyway.

But just at that moment, Ollie came running up to the DJ booth, shouting and pointing at his watch. Grabbing a microphone, he cut the music and shouted for attention. "Everybody get ready! Are you ready?" The energy in the club was mounting, as everyone turned to shout at the booth. "10 - 9 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 5..." The whole club was chanting along as he held his watch aloft. "...4 - 3 - 2 - 1 - HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Poppers went off all around us, showering us with confetti and streamers as Adie dropped the next track, to the accompaniment of people shouting with joy and embracing each other madly. I hugged Adie, squeezing him tight, hugged Kieran, who hugged me stiffly back, accepted a drink of champagne straight from the bottle, then turned to hug Thom, but he was trying to get back on the decks already. I somehow seemed to have lost my turn, but the three of us all played each others' records, joking and laughing until Steve finally kicked all three of us off and took over himself.

Laughing, I spilled back onto the floor, pulling Thom onto the dance floor behind me, even as he was still giggling and pretending to play drums on top of Adie's head in time to DJ Shadow. 2004 was already starting out amazing, and I felt filled with hope that this would finally be the year that things turned around for me.

We danced, close now, arms around each other, fingers twined together even when we moved apart. We spun around, or maybe time stood still and the room spun around like galaxies revolving around some cosmic hub. Thom's pupils were wide in the half-dark, like black holes in the centre of his face. Everything seemed magical, golden, dusted with some kind of pixie dust, shimmering in a hazy half-light. No matter where Khama played, he had a habit of turning the venue into a church, a chapel of joy and festivity, but there was something really celebratory in the air that night as slowly people started to hug one another good night and drift off into the snow. We stayed until the end, though, Thom and I slow-dancing as the dance floor cleared out, my arms around his neck, his arms around my waist, neither of us needing to talk, even had we not been too stoned to make conversation. The music stopped, the lights came on, but still we kept swaying, round and round in lazy circles.

"Come on, you two," Adie called, playing a quick keyboard solo on the top of Thom's head.

"How we gonna get home? The trams aren't even running now coz of the snow," I complained as I cleared up my stuff and prepared to leave.

"The rest of us are going back to Interstep Towers. We can walk there, no problem."

As he opened the backstage door, Thom frowned out into the snowy street. The world looked so beautiful, the snow glistening in the street lamps, giving Croydon a magical look I'd never seen, but the only cars on the road seemed to be hopelessly spinning their wheels. "Am I invited? I don't think I'm going to get the car out tonight."

"Fuck!" I howled as I looked through my things, trying to find my jacket. "My coat's gone. Has anyone seen a big green winter parka?"

"I'm sure it can't have gone far," Adie insisted. "I'll check the backstage."

I went through my things - thankfully the blackberry was still hidden deep in the recesses of my bag, and my wallet was safe, but my coat had simply gone missing. "Fucking Croydon, don't leave your shit unattended for a moment."

"It's got to have been an accident. There's been people back here the whole night," Adie pointed out, frowning at the idea that one of our mates could have been thieving from us.

"Here." Thom pulled off his jacket, then carefully peeled apart the layers of his clothes. "The leather jacket isn't that warm, but take the hoodie, it's lined, look at this - it's supposed to be reversible, but aren't these colours something?" He held it up to reveal that the inside of the plain, hemp-coloured garment was a riot of orange and brown and green yarn, knitted into a clashing psychedelic zig-zag.

"Are you sure you won't need it?" Turning it inside-out, I couldn't decide if it was hideous or beautiful, but I loved it.

"I'm not going to let you go out in six inches of snow wearing... just that." He seemed to have forgotten my outfit until faced with the weather, but as I wrapped his hoodie around me, he smiled at me. Carefully, he took hold of the hem, did the zipper up, pulling it all the way up to my chin, then pulled the hood up over my head, carefully pulling my braids out and arranging them neatly around my face. "You look adorable. Like a little pixie," he told me, before bending over and kissing me softly on the tip of my nose.

Despite the cold, I still felt happy and golden, warmed by the excitement of the club and my good friends. We chased each other lazily in the snow, drunken fools reeling home, pelting one another with snowballs. Thom and Adie and I battled against Steve and Arthur and Ollie down several side streets, until Jess accidentally got a facefull of snow intended for Adie and screamed at us to stop.

Interstep Towers, at least, was warm and dry. Adie went off to make a pot of tea as Steve and Ollie manhandled the spare mattresses, that usually provided sound insulation in the studio, into the living room so that everyone could have a place to crash. Thom smiled nostalgically as he helped push them into place, creating a sea of cushions and bedding right across the living room floor. "This place brings back such memories. It's like every band hand house ever."

"I am so glad that my sister and I never did the band thing like that." I looked around, chose the one that seemed least filthy, and begged a sheet and a couple of blankets off Arthur, then turned to see Thom perched nervously on the edge of it.

"Is there enough room or do we have to share?" he ventured tentatively, looking up at me with hopeful eyes.

I was about to snort and tell him not to be so damned obvious, trying to sneak into my bed with all the spare floor space around, when the doorbell rang and a whole new gang of stragglers from the club turned up, looking for the party. Shooing Thom off and pushing my mattress into the corner, I sat on it and leaned against the wall, sipping my tea and wondering how I was going to sleep as Steve turned down the lights and put on a record. The long walk and the freezing cold had taken the buzz off my high, and now I just felt thick with the warmth of the house, and very, very sleepy, despite the tea. Thom had slowly inched his way across the mattress and was curled up beside me, sipping at his own cup of tea as he eyed me wistfully.

"Do you want a blanket?" I asked, offering him my spare.

"Thanks." He wrapped it round himself loosely, bundling himself into it until he looked like a strange cocoon of a man, his bright eyes and his tufty hair emerging occasionally to sip at his cup of tea. "I fear I'm getting too old for this staying up all night lark, though."

Following his lead, I wrapped myself up in my own blanket, though I still didn't remove his hoodie. There was a part of me that never wanted to take it off again, stay wrapped in the fuzzy warmth, still smelling every so slightly of his musk. "I'm getting to the point where I think I could sleep through anything. I could probably fall asleep standing up on the dance floor at Plastic People, to be honest."

"That is a trick that would come in useful on tour." He smiled wryly. "I have to put on headphones to blot out the noise around me. But then I end up getting too distracted by the music to sleep properly."

"I like listening to music as I sleep. It finds its way into my dreams sometimes." I found myself sinking lower on the mattress, desperate to stay awake to talk to him, but losing the battle to stay vertical. But Thom was sinking right along with me, hunkering down, his shoulders hunched as he turned slightly towards me.

"It depends. You have to make sure you're listening to something nice and warm and enveloping as you go to sleep, and not something scary that will give you bad dreams. I always used to make the mistake of trying to listen to, like, Selected Ambient Works Volume 2 when I was sleeping, and then something like White Blur would come on, and my lovely soothing dreams would take on a scary, menacing tone."

I nodded, and shifted over so I could place my empty tea cup on the floor beside the bed, then turned back to him, lying so close our noses and knees almost touched. "Do you ever get, like, recurring nightmares?"

"Oh god, yes. Your typical stress dreams. Car crashes, plane crashes, twisted hunks of metal. Those are really scary. But then there's kinda ridiculous ones, too. I'm always having the one where I'm at soundcheck, and I've forgotten something crucially important, back at the hotel. So I get in a taxi to go and fetch it, and just one thing happens after another, and I'm lost, and I'm just trying to get back to the venue, and time is ticking, and everyone's going to be so angry at me, and the promoter is going to sue us, and it's just... argh!" As his voice petered out, he screwed up his eyes and rubbed them with his balled hands, shaking his head slowly.

"I think that everyone who's ever been in a band gets that dream," I chuckled.

"Do you?"

"Well, not any more. But I have another recurring stress dream, I've had it since childhood."

"What is it?"

"No, it's silly." I shook my head but he smiled at me encouragingly, those icy blue eyes incredibly warm.

"Go on, tell me."

"Alright. I've had this since I was a child. I wake up one morning, and overnight, the national language of Britain has been changed back to, like, Prehistoric British Celtic. And everyone is speaking this weird language I don't understand, and all the signs are in, I dunno, Welsh or something. And I'm going into shops, and people who spoke to me yesterday in English, they're talking to me in Welsh. And I'm just 'look, you spoke English yesterday, I know you speak English, can you just speak English to me again, coz I don't understand you?' And they never do, they just go on babbling in this language I don't understand. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's terrifying, while it's happening."

Instead of laughing, he cocked his head thoughtfully. "If you don't mind my asking, is English your first language?" Then suddenly his face reddened. "Oh, Christ, I don't mean that as rude as it sounds. I just wondered if maybe you or your parents had spoken another language when you were small?"

I shook my head, finding his flustered embarrassment funny rather than offensive. "No, I was born here. And my Mum made a point of never speaking Ndebele around me because she didn't want me to pick up an accent. Seriously - you don't need to be a psychoanalyst to work out what the dream means, it's exactly what it seems."

"Ndebele? What is that, a South African language?"

"Zimbabwe. My mum was born in Rhodesia. But, erm, it's supposed to be pretty close to Zulu languages in South Africa. A lot of my family went there after the Civil War - well, the ones that didn't make it to Britain." It was odd, how different it felt, detailing my personal history to Thom, than it had been with Adie. Like I had something to apologise for. Thom was as English as the Oxfordshire countryside, how could he ever understand what it felt like to feel so much like an interloper in your own home?

"Wow. That must have been so difficult. I was only kind of vaguely aware of there being a civil war... I suppose I remember all the news about South Africa. I went on all kinds of protest marches for divestment, back when I was a student." He said it proudly, like he expected me to be impressed. 

Do not rise to the bait, Lucy, I thought to myself. He's a well-meaning left-leaning Englishman, he doesn't actually want a debate on African politics and whether British foreign policies of the 80s hit wealthy whites or poor Africans harder - he just wants to show that he was, I dunno, concerned or something. So I nodded and said nothing. "Really," I acknowledged, in a dry, flat tone I realised was his own.

"Have you ever been back to Zimbabwe?"

"Fuck no. We'd be killed. And it's not _back_ for me. I've never lived there. London is my home." It was weird that I had to explain this to him, like I never had to explain it to Adie or Kieran or Khama or anyone in my lot. Guess I had got too used to not having to explain myself any more.

"And yet, somehow, there's a part of you that feels it's not your home, if you still have dreams like that. That you feel as alien in this world as I do. I think that's one of the things I've always been really drawn to, with you. Both of us are perpetual outsiders." He reached out gently to touch the side of my face. I felt myself stiffen but somehow managed to keep myself from reacting. There was so much anger in me, over this stuff, still. But it would not be fair to take it out on Thom. There was no malice in him, not even that window-twitching curiosity of the English. He was just trying to connect with me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"You. An outsider. Straight, white middle class boy who went to a Public School. Do you have any idea what that sounds like, to... us."

I had expected Thom to get angry, to get defensive, like Jack or his friends always would. But Thom's eyes swept around the room, taking in the gang of kids who were still dancing in a huddled mass in the living room. "I suppose that sounds arrogant. I'm very sorry if it does." His face was honest and open, without guile. "But in Scotland, I got beaten up by bigger kids for being English. And in England, I got beaten up for sounding Scottish. And when I got to Public School... well, it's bad enough just being a clever-clogs at one of those schools. But to be a small, not particularly masculine clever-clogs with a visible disability... trust me, I know what it's like to be the outsider. I know what it's like, not to belong."

I looked at him carefully, taking in the oddness of his face, his one eye huge and round in the dark, the other fixed and staring. I'd got so used to the beauty, the vibrancy, the personality of his face that I'd stopped even thinking of him as disfigured. And yet to a pack of 12 year old boys... "I'm sorry, I never even thought of it that way."

"Really, we're not so different, you and I. No matter how successful we get, it's just so hard, isn't it, to shake that feeling that you don't really belong. If I didn't have my band... well, my band was the first place in my life I ever truly felt like I belonged, like it was mine."

"I know what you mean. The Loophole - the forum, the internet in general, really - it's the first place I've ever felt really, truly at home, like I actually belonged there, and was allowed to be there, even if someone objected." I hadn't even realised that it was true until I said it aloud. As I noticed that Thom was still touching my face, gently stroking the side of my cheek, it dawned exactly how comfortable I'd become with him. I actually trusted him. "I've never told anyone about that dream before. Not even Jack. I always thought he'd laugh at me."

He nodded slowly, without taking his eyes from mine. "When I was small, I started to have a recurring dream that my parents forgot to collect me from hospital. It started when I first went up to boarding school. That I'd be sitting in the waiting room, all bandaged up and ready to go home, but my parents just forgot to come. And I couldn't go back on the ward, because they'd already given my bed to some other little boy. But no one would come from home. They'd blur sometimes, the hospital ward, and the dormitory at my school. But that feeling of desertion, of desolation, of being left utterly alone in the world, I wake up in a cold sweat with my heart going boom boom. And it never entirely goes away, it still comes back, when I'm stressed, or trying to make some difficult decision." He paused, pulling a wry face. "It fucks you up, Public School, in ways you don't even realise sometimes until years later."

"Don't I know it."

"What, because of Jack?" He couldn't even say the name without making a distasteful face, as if he were spitting out a piece of gristle.

I rolled my eyes. "No, I meant me. I went to Dulwich - well, JAGS. I suppose it's not quite the same if you're a day student and not a boarder - but that whole Public School thing, the pressure, the, competition, the casual cruelty that makes up the subtle status jostling of the British upper middle class - don't think I don't understand it."

The expression of surprise dissipated only slowly. "I had no idea."

"What, you assume, because I'm..."

"No," he interrupted, laughing. "Because you're so well-adjusted. But at least the accent makes sense now." His smile had changed, subtly. It was that weird thing that upper middle class English people sometimes did when they realised that they you were one of them, really. It was moments like this that made me realise that despite how alien I felt, the jagged gaping wound down the middle of English society, it wasn't race, it was class. The English middle classes had far more in common with a nice brown public school girl like me, who had grown up in crisp uniform knee-socks and straw boaters, than they ever would be with a white working class lad like Ollie or Steve.

"Awright, would you prefer if I spoke like Adie, innit?" I teased, all popping South London consonants.

His face grew serious, as if catching my train of thought. "It's weird how it works. I resent it sometimes, the assumptions that people make about me, because I went to boarding school, or because of my accent - they think I come from money, when I was a just a smart scholarship kid. It's weird to think those assumptions can work the other way around. That people would just assume that you couldn't possibly have gone to Public School because of your background."

"Because of my colour, you mean. It's alright, you can say it, Thom. Because I'm Black." I smirked, almost enjoying the way that he was squirming. If there wasn't this slightly sadistic public school girl streak in me, who slightly enjoyed the discomfort of subverted expectations, I could never have endured ten years of Jack's posh arts lot.

Thom smirked as he ran his finger across my cheek then flicked my nose tenderly. "You're more sort of nut-brown. Cafe-au-lait at a pinch, though that might just be the English winter." I tried very hard not to laugh at the art-school fastidiousness with which he described colours, and fixed him with my most penetrating _racism is serious_ face. And abruptly Thom's face grew worried, and slightly earnest. "I'm sorry. I should not have made those assumptions. They were wrong, and I apologise. Promise that you'll tell me, you'll call me on it if I do anything like that again." The impulse was cute, but I deepened my expression, and he screwed up his face again. "Wait, no. I'm sorry. It's not your job to police me. It's my job not to be an arsehole. I just meant... if I ever say or do anything to make you uncomfortable, please. Just tell me."

The look in his face was so open and honest that it stopped the witheringly sarcastic remark dead on my tongue. Instead I shook my head gently. "You don't have to apologise to me. But it means a lot to me that you did."

He smiled sheepishly, but then his grin broadened with mischief again. "You seem so much calmer now. If someone said something like that on the forum you'd have torn them a new one."

"Ha. I think you have over-exaggerated my ferocity."

As he shook his head, his whole cocoon of blankets wobbled. "No, I think you are calmer. I think you're happier, too. This is the happiest I've ever seen you. I suppose maybe it's just New Years and the party and the drugs... but you seem happier." He paused, as if gathering the courage to get the next bit out. "Since you left Jack. You are happy, aren't you?"

I paused, and thought about it. For several hours, as the music played and the champagne flowed and the ganja loosened up my brainstem, I had completely forgotten about Jack and the divorce and everything. "I don't really know yet. Half of me feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. But the other half... it feels like the hard part's only just begun. All the legal shit. Dividing up our belongings. The house. Finding a new place to live, finding a new..." I realised I had been about to say _new lover_ but stopped myself just in time.

"I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all easier for you. If there's anything I can do, any help I can give you..."

Raising my hand, I pressed my finger to his lips. "Just be my friend, alright? That's what I really need from you right now."

"Your friend." Thom pronounced the word slowly, as if trying to figure out what it meant. His pale blue eyes seemed to melt, growing slightly wet around the edges. "Yeah, OK," he told me, reaching out and touching my hair. There was one braid, at the top of my forehead, springing out of my widows' peak, that just never wanted to lay flat with the rest of my hair, and always flopped forward into my face, so Thom lifted it gently and tucked it behind my ear. "Be your friend. I can do that."


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thom and Lucy attempt to turn their sublimated attraction to music-making.

Thom and I both fell silent as music rose up to fill the space between us. The party had moved on from the raucous stage to the long, slow come-down, as people drifted off, or found their way to sofas or mattresses to collapse, and the music had down-shifted, too, to the low throb of some ambient techno, Global Communication or something like that. I don't even know when I fell asleep. One moment I was lying there, in the dim light of the corner, looking at the light of the street lamp playing on Thom's face, and the next, it was morning, and I blinked awake to find the soft light of the dawn turning the hairs of his face all golden. I didn't think I'd ever seen a blond man that close before - even the hairs of his eyebrows and his eyelashes were a soft, reddish gold, dusting his freckled cheeks. Freckles were a marvel to me, the dappled patches of a deeper colour against the milk-white skin of his cheeks and forehead. There was something a bit freakish about it - that only horses and maybe speckled codfish should be spotted like that - but at the same time it oddly suited him. Some devilish instinct made me reach up and touch his hair, expecting it to be as soft and silky as a cat's, and surprised to find it thick and somewhat wiry, like a horse's mane. Jack's hair had never been like this.

His eyes fluttered open, but he merely smiled. "That feels nice."

"Sorry, I thought you were asleep," I stuttered, embarrassed.

"Come here," he whispered, and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close to his chest, and there, my eyes shielded from the sunlight, I fell asleep again.

I awoke again to what felt like an earthquake, and someone shouting in my ear. "Come on, come on, get up lazyheads, it's past noon." Adie, sounding far too boisterous as he jumped up and down on the mattress.

"Leave them alone, they've been fucking." A girl's voice, possibly Jess.

"They've not, you know. They're all wrapped up in their own blankets, like giant caterpillars. Come on, wake and bake." An acrid smell filled my nostrils, then a tiny cough from Thom as he struggled to take hold of the spliff that had just been jammed into his mouth. "We've got a full day ahead of us. You've got to get up and sing for your supper, Thommy-boy. Vocal tracks to cut."

"Ohhh... give us a cup of tea first," Thom moaned, letting go of me and wriggling into a ball, even as the tip of his spliff glowed and smoke spilled from his mouth. "If this is a band house, there probably isn't anything at all to eat, is there?"

"There's toast," Jess announced, flopping down on the sofa next to Steve and spilling crumbs everywhere, even as he glared at her and pulled his laptop out of danger's way, adjusting his headphones to drown her out.

"I'll see what there is," I told Thom, kissing him gently on the top of his head before pulling myself to my feet and following Adie through into the kitchen to see about tea and toast.

"You two looked awfully cosy," Adie observed, pulling slices out of the toaster and replacing them with more bread.

I looked back and forth between the toast and the butter and jam sitting on the edge of the counter. Was Thom a vegan or a vegetarian? Vegans were weird about butter, weren't they? Wait, no. He'd eaten Yorkshire pudding at the pub, which was filled with eggs, and I'd seen him eat cheese. "I'm not fucking him, you know," I informed Adie, even as I found myself making his breakfast.

"I know. I believe you." But doubt clouded his face. "I might be the only person on the forum who does, though."

I glared at him. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing! I swear. I didn't say anything. But... someone last night got a really blurry cameraphone photo of you and Thom slow-dancing and posted it to PopBitch. It's already on the forum."

"Oh for fucks sake..."

"You know what those gossips are like. Take anything and blow it out of proportion. I just wanted to warn you, yeah? I didn't want you to go on there unprepared. I mean, I've been defending you, and Worrywort says you're entitled to present your side of the story - and, of course though Telexie wouldn't hear a bad word said against Thom, if you ask me, she's green-eyed with jealousy and Joe ain't helping matters, he just wants drama. Allen says he'll lock the chat thread if things get bad, but..." He shrugged helplessly, suddenly looking very young. But even as I studied his face for answers, I couldn't help but notice his freckles, and compare them mentally with Thom's. I might not be physically sleeping with Thom - OK, maybe I was literally, but not metaphorically, alright? - but I was already there emotionally.

"Are you going to warn Thom?"

"Thom's not my concern. You are."

I decided not to tell Thom, not to ruin the day or say anything to make him leave. Especially when I returned to the living room and found he'd moved to the sofa, sitting next to Steve, the headphones draped over his ears as he listened intently to Steve's latest mix. If he'd asked to listen to Steve's music, he had made himself a friend for life. That was the funny thing about Steve - everyone always tried to impress him by giving him their demos, but the quickest way to his friendship was actually to ask about his own music. And from the intent way that Thom was nodding, I could tell he liked what he heard. Thom distractedly drank his tea and ate his breakfast, gesturing to Steve the whole time to play him another one, and then another.

Finally, Adie managed to pry him off Steve's laptop, and took him upstairs to the spare bedroom that functioned as our makeshift studio. Thom's eyes instantly lit up as he looked around, taking in the various bits of kit lying around, synths - many of them ones I'd lovingly put back together - drum machines and bits of processing equipment they'd scraped together. Indeed, half my studio seemed to have ended up in Croydon. "Alright, this is miles beyond anything we had in our band house. We recorded all our early demos on a 4-track in a church hall, but this... wow, is that an aural exciter?"

"Do we have a decent vocal microphone?" Adie wondered aloud, digging around in a box. "I thought Denise might have left that lovely Neuman of hers, but no luck..."

"She keeps that thing padlocked to her body at all times, I'm sure. That thing was a £500 microphone, even second hand," I snorted.

"Nope, sorry, we're going to have to use the SM-57," Adie sighed. "You alright with that?"

"Yeah, we use them all the time, no problem." But he frowned as Adie just plugged it in and handed it to him. "You got a stand - and a popguard and things?"

"A what?" Adie looked puzzled. "No, you just hold it. In your hands. It's how we did all Lucy's vocals, it'll be fine."

"But..." Thom looked doubtful. "Look, I over-ennunciate. Nigel always complains I'm a spitter. I know I am, I'll pop everywhere and ruin your take. Trust me, I've been singing into SM-57s for 20 years, I need a popguard."

Adie turned to me for help, shaking his head, but I had an idea, an old trick I remembered from reading old issues of Sound On Sound. "Hold on, do you have any wire hangers?"

"Dunno. Check my closet if you like."

I walked next door and found a wire hanger, bending it out of shape into a rough circle. Then I bent down and slipped off my tights, wrapping them over the wire frame, stretching it tight, and then tying it off. When I returned to the studio, Adie had found a mic stand and was setting it up in front of a bemused Thom, his face dwarfed by an enormous pair of cans as he listened intently to the music. As I handed him the makeshift popguard, he pushed them off his ears and smirked at me, then raised it to his face, sniffing slightly.

"Shut up, they do not smell. I checked. It's that or nothing."

He sniffed again, deeply, then smirked. "Body Shop cocoa butter? Coconut scent, I think? No wonder you always smell so good."

I blushed slightly, but did my best to ignore him, settling down in a corner of the studio to roll another spliff. Although I'd expected a professional like Thom to be serious and businesslike in the studio, he was as mischievous as a little boy, hugging himself as he twisted his whole body to the music, shaking his head back and forth as he caught the rhythm. Adie wasn't even recording yet, he was just playing the track over and over again in a loop as Thom stood listening to it, his eyes closed. Then, gently, he started to hum, and I recognised the song, though he was pulling out a strange, minor key melody on top of our arrangement. Christ, had Adie picked this one on purpose? No, there was no way he could have known. This was the track I'd bashed out in a weird manic streak of lust, when I'd first realised that I was starting to fall in some kind of weird crush with Sleep Furiously. And now Sleep Furiously was standing in our studio, twisting his body back and forth and stringing together strange sequences of sounds, nonsensical syllables to my song of longing.

"Keep going, I'm just getting a level check off you before we record," Adie announced, as Thom continued to babble into the microphone, the nonsense slowly giving way to snippets of phrases.

"Did you choose this song?" I asked Adie, leaning forward to push one of his monitor headphones off his ears so I could whisper to him.

"No. He did. I played him several tracks we don't have vocals for - he listened to all of them for about ten seconds, then went 'no, next one' - until I played this one. He just snapped to it and started wriggling about, said this was the one."

Thom sung his nonsense words one more time, then pushed his headphones back off his ears, making his hair stand up around his head like a mane. "Do you have any paper?" Adie stopped the track and found him a notebook, but Thom shook his head. "No, keep rolling the tape. Can you do multiple takes on one run?"

"Multiple takes, but it layers them onto the same track if you loop it."

"That's fine. Just do that, I'll sing on top of myself, build it up."

Adie cast a questioning glance at me, but I just shrugged, so he rolled his eyes and did as Thom asked. Thom scribbled away, scratching indecipherable notes onto the paper, then gestured to me for the spliff. I lit it and handed it to him, and he took a small puff, holding his breath tightly, then he let it go and relaxed his body like he was doing yoga.

"Let's go," he nodded, and Adie tapped the record button.

Thom threw back his head, and he sang. It never failed to astonish me, how that tiny, slender little body could produce such a huge, heart-rending quantity of emotion, rushing out of those quivering lips in torrents. His voice twisted as his body did, churning with desire as he chanted, the notes slipping up the scale "In the back of your bedroom... in the back of your hot room..."

He barely looked at his notes, just glancing down occasionally, letting loose this incredible stream of consciousness barrage of lust and longing, in a single fluid take. Adie went to hit stop, but Thom waved him away, and instead Adie just tipped him onto the next track. And then he went again, the same barrage of emotion and longing, but shifting a fifth up here, a third down there, weaving in and out of his own melody like a drunken man weaving in and out of the dancefloor. And then he went round a third time, his voice soaring up into that gorgeous high, quavering falsetto, swooping like a bird, another melody, almost an octave up. And then, finally, he gestured to Adie, dragging his fingers across his throat in the universal gesture for "cut."

And then he flopped back down onto the little futon at the back of the room, pushing the headphones off his head and blinking as if he were just waking up from a trance. "There's got to be something usable in there. I can go again if you need, but just give me a minute..." he panted, seeming absolutely exhausted.

But Adie's eyes widened as he hit the playback. "Oh. My. God."

"What does it sound like? Put it on speakers!" I urged.

"Alright, it might need a tiny bit of cutting and pasting - I kinda want to grab one of those lines and repeat it like a chorus. But it's pretty much there," Adie explained, clearly astonished. Pulling out the jack of his headphone, he plugged the monitor speakers back in and turned them up. I knew how the song started, I'd heard it a million times, but as Thom's voice swooped down from the sky, it took my breath away. "Catch this bit, loop it," Adie explained, sketching out how he was going to edit the song. The main line came in like a chant, low and throaty. Adie fiddled with some buttons, bringing in reverb and a bit of step delay to make it sit better in the track - but then suddenly the harmony kicked in. I kept waiting for the high, swooping harmony on top, but it only seemed to dip in occasionally, when the other voice wasn't going. And then I realised what he'd done. It was a duet with himself - the low, chanting voice questioning, longing, expressing doubts, while the high voice echoed back the longing, the doubts extinguished, urging him on. But to what? He'd taken my song, my long low growl of desire, and made it crackle with complication.

I looked over at Thom, my eyes wide, and he stared back at me, horizontal on the futon, his crooked smile seeming both to reprove me and goad me on.

"This is absolutely incredible," Adie gushed, lining the song up to play again, even as his fingers were flying, trying to edit the sounds the way he wanted them. "Go downstairs and get Steve - he's got to hear this."

I couldn't move. I just bent over, opened the door, leaned out and shouted "Steve! Come up here and listen!" down the stairs. The whole gang of them came clattering up the stairs, curious as to what we'd been recording. It was one of the things I loved best about Interstep Towers - how everyone was so interested in each other's music, constantly listening, providing feedback, offering encouragement or constructive criticism as needed. But this time, they all just stood and listened, with open mouths.

Steve nodded sagely. "We gotta move the release date."

"You gotta bring it forward, get this in the shops in time for Valentine's Day," Jess observed, giving Ollie a quick squeeze.

"No, you gotta move it back - to coincide with the Japanese tour, make sure we can get the discs over there in time, and give us time to try to get some advance press going."

"We gotta get this out as soon as possible. This is going to be big."

"No, we gotta plan this just right, hold it back until the time is right because this isn't just going to be big, this is going to be fucking massive, and we need to organise a bit enough pressing!"

But I didn't hear them scrapping over the release schedule, because I was too busy looking at Thom, and Thom was looking back at me, both of us biting our lips and staring at one another, unspoken conversations of fear and longing passing between our eyes. The song left no doubt in my mind. Whatever it was that I felt about him, he felt it about me, too.

 

\-----

 

Thom drove me home, late that afternoon, after the roads had been cleared and the worst of the snow had started to melt. It was nice, being in his car, like a self contained world, as he directed me to open the glove compartment and dig through the hand-labelled CDs. "Just some stuff I've been working on... I think you might like it."

I slipped the CD into the car's player, and gasped as the music swirled around us. It was the track he had sent me before, but this one had vocals, a whole swirling chorus of swooping, swooning Thoms, fluttering about my ears, begging _no more going to the dark side with your flying saucer eyes, no more going down a worm hole that I have to pull you out_...

"You're right, I would have recognised your voice if you'd sent me this."

"But you wouldn't have urged me to send it to Warp or Kompakt, would you?" he winked.

"You know I thought it was beautiful before I had any idea it was you - and I think it's even lovelier now." I held my breath as the song ended, and the next track started, a lush electronic backing, woven through with snatches of his voice. "And I still do think that you should do something with these."

Thom shook his head slowly, moving forward on the seat as he passed a bus going over Brixton Hill. It was funny, the way he seemed to drive with his whole body, throwing himself into his turns. "Jonny reckons I should do a solo album."

"Jonny's always right. You said that yourself."

We listened to a stream of songs as the car flew up, through a deserted London, towards Bloomsbury, as Thom even sang along on a couple of tracks, to show where the harmonies should be. When we finally pulled up outside my block of flats, he smiled nervously, and hit the eject button carefully. "I'd kind of, erm... I'd really appreciate it if you'd listen to the rest of the tracks on this, tell me what you think of it."

"For real?" I was slightly taken aback as I stared at the CD he offered.

"Well, not if you don't want to. But I'd kind of like you to have it." His face actually looked uncertain. Thom fucking Yorke was unsure if I wanted a whole 74 minutes worth of his unreleased demos.

"I would love it, but are you sure you want to part with that?"

"I can always burn another one," he shrugged, with a disarming grin.

I embraced him quickly, kissed him gently on the cheek, then darted out of the car, clutching the CD, before he could change his mind.

The flat, when I got upstairs, was much as I had left it - cold, empty, lonely. I had never really liked staying in it by myself, and after ten years, the feeling had not got much better. There were a couple of messages blinking on the ansaphone - Jack, his voice polite but strained, calling to say that he'd be out all night at the party of someone from the arts centre. My parents, at a reasonable hour, with polite wishes for the new year. My sister, drunkenly shouting down the phone as her very affable but incredibly boring husband tried to calm her down.

My family. I hadn't even thought of how I'd tell them. My sister had never liked Jack, so I didn't imagine she would react too badly to the news. My parents, though - for all their firebrand political beliefs, they were incredibly traditional when it came to marriage. Jack didn't beat me, he didn't sleep around - well, not that I knew of - and he didn't drink to excess, so really I should stop complaining like the middle class English brat I was becoming (and honestly, they had spent so much money trying to make sure I would become) and just go back and quietly make my marriage work. Never mind how unhappy I had been. Never mind how much of my life and myself I had already sacrificed to make sure that Jack's life remained quiet and easy. No, this was something to be presented fait accompli to my parents, not as a work in progress.

I turned on the stereo, put on Thom's CD, loud, and then sat down to start making a list and drawing up a plan for how to move on with the rest of my life.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy has to find a new place to live, as her divorce turns nasty.
> 
> And strange things are happening on the Loophole Forum, as they may have been hacked.

Jack didn't call. He had to have had the letter from my lawyer by now, but still, he didn't call. Maybe it was some battle of the wills thing, maybe he thought I would break down and call him, begging him to take me back if I didn't ring him, but there was nothing. By the end of the week, when I still hadn't heard from him, I tried ringing the house out in Wiltshire, just to make sure that he had actually received the letter - even though the lawyer had sent it registered delivery, to make sure - but there was no answer, and no ansaphone.

Not that I had time to chase Jack. I had rung up a letting agent, wondering how much it would cost me to move out, thinking that I might have to widen my net from expensive Bloomsbury, maybe out as far as Clerkenwell or Islington, only to discover that there was no way in hell that I could afford to rent anywhere even in Zone 1. Rents seemed to have increased tenfold in the decade that had passed since I had left school and started looking for my first flat. So that sent me ringing through the flatmates wanted section in the Guardian Guide, sifting through divorcees in Hampstead (who certainly wouldn't want another divorcee rattling around their houses) and go-getting professionals in Islington who wanted some go-getting city type to squeeze into their box rooms but piss off back to the Home Counties at the weekend. I was starting to be immensely grateful for the 6-month residency in Wiltshire which had, at first, seemed a stupidly long amount of time for Jack to be away - at least it gave me the freedom to be able to look and try to find something decently.

And then, early on Saturday morning, I was shaken out of bed at a ridiculous hour, by the doorbell. Not even the buzzer down at the front door of the block of flats, but the loud, sharp bell directly outside our door. For a terrible moment, I wondered if it were Jack, come to remonstrate in person, then realised that he would just have walked in, and probably shaken me out of bed, too. Pulling my dressing gown around me, I made my way to the door and peered through the peephole.

Luke stood on the landing, scratching at the back of his head like he was picking at nits, and I was honestly so surprised to see him that I opened the door without even thinking what he might be doing there. "Luke, this is a surprise. What are you..."

But he pushed past me into the flat without even waiting for an invitation. "Make us a cup of tea, will you, love? Got a long day of heavy moving ahead of me." Without even so much as a by-your-leave, he walked over to the television and started to disconnect it from its bed of wires in the entertainment centre.

"What on god's green earth do you think you're doing?" I just about managed to stutter, not moving from the spot, even to stop him from carrying the VCR off, let alone put the kettle on. "You can't just walk in here and..."

"Got an email from Jack. He wants a load of his stuff before you go off with it. Oh, and by the way - he wants you out by the first of February."

"What? He has absolutely no right... hey, wait, put that down. Those speakers are mine, not his. I bought those, with my own money," I snapped as Luke tried to lift my pair of Rogers.

"He told me, the flat belongs to Dunbar Publishing and they have every right to evict either of you when and if they choose. I've got a copy of the email here, things I'm to take for him."

"What?" I had always known that the lease was in Jack's name, at a peppercorn rent, but I had no idea that he would ever be devious enough to break his own lease in order to get me out. As I scanned the email, I felt my heart lurching.

 

> Hey Luke. 
> 
> The bitch says she's divorcing me - to run off with some rock star, I reckon - so I've got to get my stuff out of the flat before the greedy bitch takes it into her head to go off with it. Not sure how she's going to react when she finds out Dunbar Publishing is terminating the lease, but I'd like to take precautions so she doesn't take it out on *my* stuff. I've got to liquidate as many of my assets as possible and fold them into my dad's company to keep her lawyers from getting their hands on them - make sure you grab the boxes of first editions in the spare bedroom, and anything else you see that's really valuable. List of things I'll need to have with me in Wiltshire in an attachment to this email. £100 for you, plus petrol money if you can get them to me this weekend.
> 
> Take care
> 
> Jack

 

"The speakers are not on the list. Put them the fuck down. And oh no... step away from that laptop. The old desktop in the bedroom is Jack's. The laptop is mine."

"It's not my business to interfere in your domestic squabbles, I've got a job to do," Luke insisted, even as he cast his greedy eyes about the flat. I knew what he was doing, he was looking for things to steal - then he'd tell Jack that I'd gone off with them.

"Alright, you can take the television, the stereo - but not the speakers - the film cameras, the desktop computer, the DVDs and the rest of his clothes. But you may not take the first editions or any of the art in this house until I've spoken to my lawyer and had her look over this email."

"Oh." Luke looked suddenly shocked, as if he only just realised that giving me the email was a bad idea. "You can't keep that, I need it as a check list."

"Too late. I'll tell you the things you can and cannot take." With my hands on my hips, I faced him down with steely-eyed determination, and was relieved to see him back down.

"All right, but I'll be back with a mate to take the bed this afternoon. Jack said it was an antique. Belongs to his mother." His head swivelled about until his eyes fixed on a cardboard box with _Betjeman First Editions_ printed on the side in Jack's Mum's elegant script, then he went over and hefted it aloft as if checking it for weight.

"You're not taking the fucking bed until I've moved out." I could not believe the depths to which Jack seemed capable of sinking. If I rang his mother, she'd probably tell me to keep the bed, and the flat as well, but just the thought of her felt like a stabbing pain in my chest.

"Yeah, but Jack said..." He stood in the centre of the room, holding the box almost like it was a weapon.

I glared at him, as fierce as a lioness. "You have a criminal record, don't you, Luke? I've heard you boast about it, down in the pub. What was it, breaking and entering, back in your squatting days? What if I rang Camden Police and told them that I'd come home to find you emptying my flat of all my things?"

As I glanced pointedly at the box and picked up my blackberry, he finally sighed and put it down. "Alright. I'll take the clothes and the entertainment centre, but I'll bring Jack with me next time. Right, which closet is his?" I pointed towards the larger of the two cupboards. "Are you gonna help me pack up all this clobber or what?"

Grinning snidely, I shook my head. "Nope. I'd be far too tempted to take a pair of scissors to them, wouldn't I?"

I sat and watched Luke throwing old jeans and ratty jumpers into boxes, eyeing him like a hawk to make sure he didn't take anything else, either of Jack's or of mine. And when he was finally gone, I closed the door firmly behind him, double-bolted it, deadlocked it, then put the chain on for good measure. For fucks sake, was I going to have to change the locks now, to stop fucking Jack from stealing my things? How long had we been married, and it had come to this?

After finally making the cup of tea I had been denying myself to spite Luke, I sat down in the middle of the floor, looking around at the mess of wreckage that the packing process seemed to have made. I wanted to just collapse in a puddle and cry, but there was too much to do. My first impulse was to call Jack and scream at him, to throw every nasty name in the book at him - but had I really expected this divorce to be easy? Then I thought about calling his Mum and making my case to have Dunbar Publishing extend the lease, or put it in my name - but then I looked at the email again, and thought, no, I had better ring my lawyer first, which I couldn't very well do on a Saturday. The whole mess would have to wait until Monday, with me trapped in my flat, terrified of leaving in case Luke came back and cleared out my flat.

The ownership of the flat was tricky - I knew that much. Jack wasn't even on the Board of his family's publishing company, he had his own company, which was in constant debt to Dunbar Publishing, though it was run as some kind of subsidiary in order to suck up all their profits as a tax dodge. That was how Jack stayed penniless enough on paper to qualify for Council Tax relief, despite being the son of a millionaire.

I toasted some stale bread and tried to eat some kind of brunch, then called my lawyer and left a brief message on the ansaphone. Then I flicked through the contacts in my address book, wondering who on earth I could call on for help. "Furious" scrolled by on my phone, and I smiled. Thom. No, it was too much. I could never call on Thom for help with my stupid personal problems. But Furious? Furious would have been the first person I'd have texted when something awful went down. I toyed with the phone for a few minutes, looking at the digits of the number, then remembered hazily what he'd told me at the club. He was thinking of going to Italy to visit his girlfriend for a few months, and had offered me the loan of his house. Christ, that would be a godsend right now. And if Jack thought I was already screwing him, well... might as well make his paranoid fantasies look true.

I hit dial, my stomach lurching for a few moments as it rang at the other end, then my whole face grew warm as that familiar voice answered. "Lucy. I was just thinking about you." I could hear the smile in his voice from 50 miles away. "How are you?"

"Not great." I prayed that my voice wouldn't break as I talked to him, but I was trying to be so strong. Quickly, I did my best to outline what had just happened, and what Jack was threatening me with, and asked, as gently as I could, if the offer of a place to stay was still open?

"Oh, Lucy." His voice crackled with empathy I just didn't seem to hear anywhere else these days. "Whatever I can do to help, I will, but..." He took a deep breath. "I had my girlfriend on the phone yesterday in tears. It seems she submitted the first few chapters of her PhD to her advisor just before Christmas, and he came back to her this week - he essentially ripped it to shreds, says she has to redo the whole thing. So... she's terrified she won't be able to finish the whole thesis in time to submit by the end of the Spring semester. She's asked me not to come out for more than a weekend at a time, I'm too distracting apparently. So... well, erm. This house won't be empty, it will... well, it will have me in it."

"Oh." So there went that plan.

"Lucy, please don't cry. I wish I could just reach through the phone and hug you, pop out with a bunch of flowers and one of those Erykah Badu slow jams we were dancing to..."

"Oh god, I wish." I smiled, despite myself, remembering that dance, his arms so tight around my waist, my head on his shoulder.

"Look, if you're really stuck... I can clear out the spare room, chuck my guitars and all my recording crap down in the living room for a few months. You can still stay here, you just can't..." His voice trailed off as I contemplated it. Wondered how long the two of us could live in the same house, sleep under the same roof and manage not to fall into each others' arms. Jack clearly already thought we were sleeping together - and then a lump rose in my throat, almost choking me. Jack was devious, that email had only scratched the surface of how devious Jack could be. And I wondered, for an awful, horrible, moment, if he had planned this.

"Thom, that's lovely of you to offer, but I just can't."

"Come on, it'll be fun. We can record together every weekend..."

"As fun as that sounds, think about how it looks. To Jack. I do not want you to be named as a co-resondent in a divorce case, OK?" My voice sounded leaden.

"Oh." A single syllable dropped into the conversation like a pebble into a shallow pool, as the implications of what he offered rippled all around us. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Oh, Furious, you naive little newbie, stumbling in where angels fear to tread..."

A nervous laugh, followed by silence. Then a deep sigh. "I'll ask around, I'll see what I can find for you. I have a lot of friends in bands, on road crews, who might need a house-sitter at short notice. You won't go homeless, I promise you."

"You're an angel, thank you, Thom."

"No, Eyesore, I am a fool, like you and Alexander Pope suggested."

I put the phone down with mixed emotions. Talking to Thom always made me feel happy, made me feel high and slightly dizzy and made everything feel a thousand times better than it really was. I wondered if that feeling would ever really wear off - and realised that no, actually, I didn't want it to. But I couldn't help but feel let down, slightly disappointed, that I'd been holding this idea in the back of my head, since New Years Eve, that if anything really bad happened, Thom would swoop down and carry me away off to Oxford to live in peace among the dreaming spires. But that really was a pipe dream, wasn't it? And there was that other thing that we always danced around, that possibility, that potential, that shadow of a doubt that this thing between us, it really might be something like an affair, that sex, the great unknown, this powerful force that could rip apart our comfortable lives, it lurked below every conversation, no matter how innocent.

I sent Adie a text, knowing that he hated talking on the phone, telling him that I needed to find a new place to live, by the first of February, and did he know of anyone - anyone - who needed a roommate, pretty much immediately.

 

> **Adie** : why don't you move into Interstep Towers? bring all your synths, it'd be wicked! you could have the spare room since you spend all your time recording anyway
> 
> **Lucy** : OK, when I said "anyone," I now realise that I didn't actually mean '4 adolescent boys looking for a den mother who will do their washing up for them' - it's very kind of you to offer, but I really don't think so.
> 
> **Adie** : oh alright. i'll see if any of the girls have a room going. jess and kara both live in nice houses - and i think kara's housemate might be graduating and moving back up north, but that won't help you until june. will keep an eye out tho x

 

So that was two awkward conversations out of the way. It was time to have the third.

I logged onto the forum for the first time since the New Year. It wasn't like I'd been avoiding it on purpose, but really I wanted to let the shock of that photo of me dancing with Thom settle down before venturing back on. Allen had been off work, and had been doing most of the moderating, and he was far less forgiving than I ever would have been. He hadn't actually banned anyone, but he seemed to have locked a couple of threads and issued a couple of time-outs to tell Windowlicker to go and sit in the corner for 24 hours or so. Furious hadn't been back on either - I kind of wondered if Thom would use that login ever again, or if he would just go back to using the official "thom" account we'd set up for the production chat. Jonny, too, had been awfully quiet, though I imagined he had been spending all his time with his family over the holidays, now that he was home. Nigel, however, had picked up some of the slack and had answered a few questions about Quadraverb and other Alesis units on the production side.

PrincessTelex seemed to have gone oddly quiet. I didn't know if it was down to school holidays, her budding relationship with Joe, or disillusionment that the man she idolised had chosen to dance with someone from the forum - and it wasn't her. One thing was certain, though. She had decided that I was persona non grata - that I was some awful groupie-whore who had gone after Thom for some nefarious, probably sexual, ends. That was the one thing that everyone, man or woman, on that forum agreed on. Eyesore and Thom were absolutely, unquestionably, without a doubt, _doing it_.

I hit the back button out of the gossip thread and clicked into private messages in order to confront MizzTing about telling Telexie about my divorce. That was odd - the previous set of exchanges with her was gone, though I didn't remember deleting them. Maybe Allen had been clearing things out to save server space. Or maybe Tingie herself had had a fit of conscience and deleted them herself to cover her tracks. I checked the backlog of saved messages from SleepFuriously - yes, they were still there. I really should have deleted them, but I somehow couldn't bring myself to. Opening up a new message, I decided to ask MizzTing straight out.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Hi. Tingie, I hate to ask you this, but did you tell PrincessTelex about my divorce? I thought I was pretty explicit about not wanting discussed on the open forum - that includes discussing it with other posters. I really trusted you, Tingie, and I would hate to think that that trust was misplaced.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Hey, WHUT? Quit buggin' Eyesore, I didn't say anything to anyone. I swear to god. And why on earth would I tell *her* if I told anyone?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : She told Adie about it. Before I was even able to tell him in person. Not that I even mind Adie knowing, but he was really hurt, thinking I'd told Telexie before I'd told him, when I see him every week! I didn't tell anyone else on the forum except you. How else could she have known?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Whoa, whoa, hold up. I have not so much as sent Telex a DM since I got back from London. To be honest, I think she was kind of mad at me, because I suggested that maybe it wasn't the most wise thing in the world to boast in public about a girl of 15 having a boy of 17 staying over all night in a shared hotel room. I mean... you're an admin, aren't you? Can't you check my DMs and you'll see I'm telling you the truth.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, what good would that do, seeing as you've been deleting all your DMs to and from me anyway?
> 
> **MizzTing** : I've been WHAT? Eyesore, have you been drinking Furious's paranoid juice? Why would I do a thing like that?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You didn't delete them?
> 
> **MizzTing** : No!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Tingie, can I have your email address? Something weird is going on with this board. I'm eyesore@yahoo.co.uk
> 
> **MizzTing** : hit me up! DecadentBerlinNites@hotmail.com

 

But before I sent her an email, I went through and checked the admin logs for the messageboard. Allen had been in, both as SubterraneanHomesickAllen, locking threads and temp-banning Windowlicker a couple of times, and as Admin, running routine checks on the database. I paged down through a few more screens, then something caught my eye. User: root had been mucking about in the password directory. And there were some log-ins, from my account, during a time when I knew for a fact that I had been offline and fast asleep.

I felt a rising panic in the back of my throat as I ran a search for that time and date. Had I made a mistake? Had I logged on from my blackberry during an all too frequent night of insomnia? No, it was a Saturday; I'd slept well. Someone, that wasn't me, was logging on to my account. Thankfully, they didn't seem to have left any posts or performed any admin actions - but they had definitely been in my DMs - they had both read and sent a couple of messages, though when I went to my account, they had all been deleted.

Almost immediately, I changed my password, then I went onto Instant Messenger and pinged Allen.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Allen, I'm really sorry to have to ask this, but have you had any weird DMs from me lately on the forum?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : nope. you always instant message me anyway. p.s. happy new year, btw.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh yeah, sorry. Happy New Year. Did you have a good one?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah, quiet. nice time with the kids. saw you and adie were partying with rock stars, though. at what point were you planning on telling me about your secret life with thom yorke?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Look, I'm really sorry, Allen. It's been kind of crazy lately. I'm as surprised as anyone that he turned up. I have not been fucking him, though, I swear to god! I know no one believes me, but I've not.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed in you. why not? or is that why you're getting divorced?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Jesus Christ, does EVERYONE know now?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : most people are capable of putting together 2 and 2
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : And getting FIVE. Look, Allen, who or what, is user: root on The Loophole?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : there isn't one. well, there shouldn't be. it's just a system login for checking the integrity of the database tables on the website itself. it's not like user: root could post to the forum or anything like that. why?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Would they have access to the password table?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : they'd have access to all the tables. it's the root user for the *website* itself.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You mean, if someone logged onto the website server as user: root, they could conceivably get the password for anyone's account
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yeah, but they'd have to... fuck, what are you saying, lucy?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm saying, I think my account has been hacked. I changed my password, but if what you're saying is, true, that doesn't even matter. They can just get it again.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : FFFFFFFUCK!
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : WAIT RIGHT THERE. I'LL BE RIGHT BACK.

 

I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen, feeling an awful, sick churning sensation in the bottom of my stomach. The sense of being violated, of being totally and completely vulnerable, open and exposed, was sickening. I saw the **Admin** user blink on, then off again in the logs, then saw the **user: root** pop up at the top. It winked off, then **thom** winked on and off, then **Jonny** winked on and off, then a second instance of **LonelyIsAnEyesore** winked on and off, then finally **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** reappeared again as himself.

 

> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : yup. it's worse than i thought. i'm taking the whole damn website offline until i get to the bottom of this. and i'm going to have to send an email to every user on the system telling them if they use their loophole password for anything else, anything else at all, change it now. that means you, too, lucy.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What the fuck just happened? Why were there two of me online a minute ago?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : we've been hacked, lucy. i don't know who it was - user: root doesn't record an IP address for login attempts. i have no idea how they did this, i've never encountered an attack as subtle as this before. but they were definitely in the password table, and there's been weird activity on your account, on thom's, on jonny's, and on mine. taking the website offline... now. here we go.

 

I hit refresh on the Loophole forum, and watched as the site melted away, to be replaced with a plain black 404 page.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lucy needs to move out of her former marital home fast, Kieran from Four Tet comes to the rescue, as he needs someone to cat-sit while he's out on tour.
> 
> But is there more to the invitation than meets the eye?

The whole Loophole forum vanished. How long was this going to last? Allen sounded freaked out - and Allen had been a programmer for fifteen years. He never sounded freaked out about anything, on the internet, ever. I didn't realise how completely the forum had taken over my social life, until there, suddenly, it was gone. I waited, but Allen did not appear back on IM. But just as I was about to give up, and get offline, another conversation request popped up. Who on earth? Ah, MizzTing. She must have tried my email address. I hit accept and opened a new conversation.

 

> **MizzTing** : there you are! I was wondering why you hadn't answered my email. What the hell is going on with the forum?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm so sorry I doubted you, Tingie. Allen and I checked the forum, the password database was hacked. If you use the same email and password for anything - change it now.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Scheisse! Hang on, I'll be right back, gotta change my MySpace. And probably my email just in case...
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : You're probably OK. Allen reckons that whoever it was, they only really went after me, him, Thom and Jonny. But better safe than sorry.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Yeah, fair enough. I mean, I was a bit... whut? when you started accusing me of shit. But if that kind of freaky thing has been happening, yeah, I guess I understand. I'd be freaked out too. You reckon it's Telex?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Telex couldn't program her way out of a paper bag! Reckon it's definitely someone connected with her in some way, though.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Joe? You know, I never liked the look of that guy.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I do not know, and I don't like throwing around allegations without proof. But Tingie... did you get any weird messages from me? Or any messages at all, since that night I told you about my divorce, just before Christmas?
> 
> **MizzTing** : errrrr... yeah?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Oh my god, I feel sick. It wasn't me, Tingie, I swear to god.
> 
> **MizzTing** : well, I thought it was really off, but I figured you were just drunk. You messaged me on New Year's Day and you said that when you said you didn't fuck Furious, that you were totally lying, that you had fucked the living shit out of him. I just laughed and wrote back and said that you were fooling no one, that I'd known all along. Then I asked if you were drunk.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What the fuck? No fucking way! Who the fuck has it in for me enough to do something like that? I DID. NOT. FUCK. HIM, TINGIE.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Hmmmm. I'm really supposed to believe that you had Sleep Furiously, backstage, all night, and you just held hands and talked about poetry?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : That is exactly what we did.
> 
> **MizzTing** : You're either crazy or lying.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I haven't fucked anyone! Come on! Give me a break! Do you think I fucked Thom Yorke, based on that photo of us dancing?
> 
> **MizzTing** : SHIIIIIIIIIT. You mean that photo is for real? I thought it was one of Pablo's photoshops. Is there something you're not telling me?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Yes. Thom came to our NYE party. He DJ'd. We danced. It was all real, it was all cool.
> 
> **MizzTing** : and you're telling me you didn't so much as cop a squeeze of that sweet white chocolate ass? Damn.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : TINGIE!!!!!!!
> 
> **MizzTing** : I totally would have and I don't have half the clit-on for that man that you do.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Clit-on? Fucking LOL. But no, Tingie. No I did not.
> 
> **MizzTing** : now I know you're batshit crazy.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Did that person pretending to be me say anything else? Did you send me any other emails that I haven't answered since then?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Yeah, I sent you an invite to my Anti-Valentines Day Massacre Party in Berlin. I thought you might need some cheering up on your first VD as a single woman. I did think it was kinda weird you didn't reply to that one.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Can you resend it, please? To my yahoo account. Because I didn't even see it. And actually, Tingie, right now, I am feeling so freaked out and exposed and vulnerable in London, that I would *love* to come over to Berlin and hang with you.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Awright! Come out for the whole weekend, make a whole holiday of it if you like. That would be amazing. I will show you Berlin as you have never seen it before!
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, considering I've never seen Berlin at all...
> 
> **MizzTing** : OMG, come! Come! Willkommen! If anything can cheer you up, 48 hours of crazed decadence in my beloved Berlin will!

 

I didn't hear back from Allen for several days. The Loophole remained offline, though after a few hours, the blank 404 page changed to a note saying " **TURN BACK YOU POXY FULE!** The Loophole is down for maintenance. Please be patient while we carry out this essential work." Whatever was going on, it looked serious, so I thought I better not bug Allen until he'd finished fixing it - and then there was sure to be a fascinating story.

I got a lot of work done, though. That was the awkward and inconvenient thing about my muse - she picked the most terrible times in my life to turn up, surfacing in my subconscious with streams of beautiful music, just at the point when I had the least time to work on it. This stuff was different, though. It wasn't anything like the music I'd been doing with Adie, that twisted and dark stuff full of longing. This stuff was light and airy, free-flowing pop and luxuriant slow jams, the kind of music that made me want to spin around on a dance floor, holding onto the back of Thom's neck, my face buried in his chest. Why was it, just when my life was miserable and completely turned upside down, that my creative imagination decided to take flight in such whimsically joyous melodies?

My lawyer got back to me, at last, asked for a fax of the email from Jack, then told me that I had absolutely done the right thing by not contacting either Jack or his mother myself. She would speak to a judge and try to get a stop on the eviction order, or at least a delay. But the truth was, Jack's 6-month residency was up in mid-February, and actually I wanted to be the hell out of that flat by then, whether he was going to carry on living there or not.

"Oh, there's something else I wanted to ask you," my lawyer sighed, after my defiant insistence that I just wanted to be clear of the marriage. "Now, I don't want this to be a shock when it comes up in court, but do you know a woman named Jane Ericsen?"

"No, I don't know anyone called Jane..." And then something floated back up from the corners of my memory. "Unless you mean a bloody sound artist named Jane?" I laughed dismissively, making a silly joke of it. "Writes impenetrable Danish operas?"

"I believe so, yes. In the documents about Mr Dunbar's recent income there was a mention that she had applied for an arts council grant, naming him as an employee or collaborator or something like that. But it looked irregular to me, that she was paying him money, though I couldn't work out what it was that he was doing for her - so I got someone to look into it. It seems that Ms Ericsen has been a frequent visitor to the Marlborough Arts Centre during Mr Dunbar's residency there. In fact, at the time of the arts council application, she listed her address as the same cottage where we served Mr Dunbar with divorce papers."

I stared straight ahead, seeing the walls of the flat seem to melt away, or perhaps it was just my head that was spinning from the awful sensation that I had just been punched in the gut, and all the air had been sucked instantly out of my lungs. "I guess he's going to get his Danish holiday, then," I whispered, more to myself than to the lawyer.

"Are you there, Mrs Dunbar?"

"Ms Wildwood," I corrected, trying to catch my breath. "Christ, he moves fast."

"I'm sorry."

"Or maybe he was already moving before I even filed for divorce. I wonder if he had her out there, on the sly, when I didn't come out." I don't know why it felt like such a shock. It was something I'd already known, subconsciously, even if I'd not allowed it to penetrate my conscious thought. He hadn't come home, that night, after the ICA. I hadn't actually noticed, that night, because I'd stayed up all night, chatting with SleepFuriously. My conscience twinged - I hadn't made much of an effort to go out to Wiltshire, to be honest. But while I was there, he kept disappearing... off to the Arts Centre. As if he were meeting someone. And the way things moved about in that house, doors opening and closing, food disappearing, plates dirtying - as if someone else had been coming and going while I was out. The house wasn't haunted, there was no ghost. But there might well have been a mistress.

No, that was being overly paranoid. But he hadn't exactly made much of an effort to get me to come out, in fact, he'd often seemed almost relieved when I'd told him I was staying in London. What about that day, that I'd gone out to surprise him? He had been in bed, all morning, until well after noon. It certainly wasn't Mary Worthington he'd been in bed with, yet... No, that was just my guilty conscience. But what if those suspicions were correct? That was what really irked. That I'd turned down Thom - twice now - insisting that I was married. What if Jack hadn't shown me the same respect?

"Mrs Dunbar? I'm sorry - Ms Wildwood? Are you there? Do you want us to investigate this ne potential income stream he may be hiding from you?"

"No, I don't give a shit about the money, but you might want to name her as a co-respondant in the divorce if that will get me out of this marriage quicker." I just managed to put the phone down before I started crying. No, this was ridiculous. I was divorcing him. He could fuck who he liked, even awful sound artists who would get him a free holiday in Denmark. That wasn't even what I was angry and upset about. I was angry and upset that I had said no to Thom, time and again, when he had clearly said yes to Jane.

 

\-----

 

Salvation came, ultimately, in the form of a phone call from an unrecognised number. When I answered, a quiet, thoughtful, serious voice that sounded oddly familiar asked for Lucy. "I've been given your number by no less than two of our mutual friends, on separate occasions, so I think this is probably fate."

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Oh, right. Yes. It's Kieran." So apparently he had that slow, careful ponderous tone to his voice even when he wasn't stoned. Then again, maybe he was stoned, even at 10 in the morning.

"Oh, hello, how are you? This is a nice surprise." I had grown so used to all surprises being horrible, awful negative ones.

"Ah, yes. Well. Thank you. See, I have a slight problem, and I've been led to believe you also have a problem, and these two problems, though unrelated, might have the same solution." His lovely, slow, sonorous voice curved around the conversation without ever raising the subject.

"I have many problems at the moment, Kier. Which one in particular?" I joked.

"You see, I'm going on tour of North America next week. I'll be away for three months. My house-sitter, however, has just backed out, as she's moving back to Australia. I need someone to feed the cats and water the plants maybe two or three times a week, until April. I can't pay, but it's a rent-free place to live. Now our mutual friends, first Adie, and then Thom, have told me you need a place to stay, until your tour, in April. Do you think these two problems might have a mutual solution?"

I dared to breath a massive sigh of relief. "I think you're an angel, Kieran. Thank you so much."

"Well, don't thank me yet. It's only a loft, on the bad bit of the Kingsland Road just north of the canal, so it's quite far out, compared to where you are now. And also, well, it is warehouse living. There is a bathroom, with a shower, and a bit of a kitchen, but it's really quite minimal compared to what you're used to. Will you be alright with that?"

"If it is a roof over my head, and it is not infested with teenage boys or belligerent ex-husbands, it will be heaven."

And so I hired a van, and over the next week, I packed up all my belongings into cardboard boxes - throwing away years worth of accumulated junk in the process. I kept my CDs, and most of my books, and the bits and bobs of synths that hadn't already gone down to live in Croydon, but vast piles of clothes got donated to charity, until I could fit everything I would ever wear again into two suitcases. I looked lovingly at the boxes of books in the spare room - first editions of every book the Dunbar Press had ever published, and quite a lot they hadn't, given to them, signed by friends and authors and colleagues, quite famous people, too, like T.S. Eliot and Virginia Woolf - and I decided to leave them. Maybe I would regret it in time, but I wanted to have the high moral ground. It was the only thing I felt I had left in my relationship with Jack, and I intended to keep it.

I sat down and I wrote a letter to Jack's Mum. I just wanted to say goodbye, and thank her for being kind to me. I said I was sorry that things hadn't worked out between her son and I, and I apologised for whatever pain and problems that the divorce would be causing - but that I really did not want to cause any hassle for the Dunbars, I just wanted to be gone, and get on with my life. Let my lawyer shout at me for sending it, but I just wanted to say something. I popped it in an envelope, ran downstairs to buy a stamp and post it, and by the time I got back, Adie was already outside the block of flats, about to ring the doorbell to come and help shifting the boxes.

And so I left. Standing outside on the curb, watching the double-parked van as Adie ran to fetch his bicycle and load it in the back of the van, I stared up at the building, trying to remember if I'd ever really been happy there. It had been nearly a decade - there had to be some good memories left in the place. Would they come back with time, when the wounds were less fresh? Maybe not, but I had to go. I put the keys in an envelope and pushed them through into Jack's mailbox, then turned and walked away, hugging myself through the thick hoodie I'd started to wear every day. Wearing Thom's clothes felt like armour, emotional protection as well as protection against the elements.

With three pairs of hands at the other end, Adie, Kieran and I made short work of getting the boxes up into the loft. Kieran really had not done a good job of selling me on his place - in truth, it was beautiful. A rattling freight elevator took us up to the top floor. Kieran showed me how to work the dizzying array of locks and bolts that had to be done up or undone if you wished to leave, then casually shrugged towards a door, informing me that was the way up to the roof terrace. The loft was huge, about three times the size of what I'd been expecting, with a recording studio, a performance area filled with bits and pieces of musical kit that presumably weren't going on tour with him, and a casually constructed kitchen and bathroom made from studded plywood walls. There was a platform bed above the kitchen block - for warmth, I assumed, as the place was not well heated. There was a wall of windows along one side, which probably made the place very light and airy when there was sun, but clearly they were not properly insulated, and there were no curtains, making the place drafty indeed. The roof, however... the roof made up for everything. Way up high, I could see all the way down to the City on one side, the skyscapers of London looming on one side, while the other side looked out, all the way across to the green strip of Hackney Marsh in the distance. And between the two edges, the whole of the London bowl seemed spread out like a map.

I found a couple of twenty pound notes, and sent Adie off on the bike to find pizza and beer as his promised payment, as Kieran led me back into the loft and tried to show me how the few amenities worked, a power shower and an ancient, cranky hot water heater in the kitchen. I laughed when I saw the plants that he was so keen to find someone to water. It wasn't like I'd been expecting geraniums or a colony of aspidistras, but I was somewhat amused to find a makeshift greenhouse added onto the back of the loft, facing away from the road, filled with a forest of staggeringly huge marijuana plants behind a thin wall of obscuring bamboo.

"Feel free to help yourself," Kieran offered with a shrug. "I've got a sun lamp that's quite good for drying it. But just make sure the cats don't get in here, they'll go nuts given half a chance."

"Where are the cats? Haven't seen much of a sign of them."

"Probably hiding. They're not always good with new people." Taking a pair of gardening shears down off the wall, Kieran cut a few fronds of a smaller plant, then smiled at my curious glance. "Catnip. I figure the cats have as much right to get stoned as people do."

He locked the door to the greenhouse, left the key up on the lintel above the door, then started to wander about the open living room, wafting the catnip about so that even I could smell it. And then slowly, cautiously, out from under various bits of furniture, emerged the two biggest, fluffiest beasts I had ever seen, so large and puffed up with long, cream-coloured fur, that I might have taken them for small dogs.

"This is Bob," introduced Kieran, scooping up the smaller one with the frosting of grey fur over his hindquarters. "And this is Cosmo." The larger, fluffier one had a brown face like a Siamese cat, and a very mischievous and slightly crazed expression in his eyes that reminded me oddly of Thom. As he fed the catnip to them, Bob grabbed hold of it, shredded it and ate it in about 20 seconds flat, but Cosmo lay about on his back, batting it back and forth for a few minutes before devouring it. As the two cats chased imaginary demons about the flat, dancing like lunatics, Kieran chuckled softly and flopped into an oversized L-shaped sofa unit to roll a spliff. "There's a super-sized bag of catfood in the top cupboard in the kitchen - be sure that you keep it closed, because I swear to god they can pick locks. Are you vegetarian?" I shook my head. "Well, there's a butchers up the road in Kingsland where you can get cheap offcuts of liver - they will love you forever if you feed them that every now and then. Otherwise... well, they'll let you know when they're hungry. Oh, and I'd brush them at least once every 2 days unless you want to spend your life hoovering up clumps of cat-hair."

I laughed as Cosmo tried to climb, vertically, up the side of the bed's ladder, then dropped, blinking, onto a rather surprised Bob, then I turned back to study Kieran, trying to imagine him lavishing all that care and attention on grooming cats. It was like a whole new, oddly sentimental, but nonetheless charming hidden side to the normally solemn young man.

After rioting for another ten minutes, the cats finally made their drunken way back to Kieran, staggering up onto the sofa and curling up on either side of him, like a pair of furry hot water bottles, looking as exhausted and confused as a pair of ravers spilling out of Herbal at six in the morning. "Aw, I wish I could take them with me," he sighed as he heaved a supine Cosmo onto his chest, purring like a small jet engine. "That's the one thing I miss when I'm on the road - my cats."

"I can't believe you've only just got off the Radiohead tour, and you're going back out on the road already," I teased. "You must be a glutton for punishment."

He smiled with his mouth, but his dark, thoughtful, heavily lidded eyes stayed solemn. "I'm touring with a Canadian band this time out. Called Manitoba. It should be a lot of fun. We're good friends, that helps a lot."

"Manitoba?" My ears perked up at the name. "I loved Up In Flames, that should actually be great. Oh, I wish I could see one of those shows, now." Kieran nodded, but his mouth was occupied sealing the joint closed. "Though are you saying you aren't friends with Radiohead, then?"

He laughed at that. "I don't think it's really possible not to be a friends with Radiohead after even just a few days on the road. They're really fantastic people, though. Great group to work with, really welcoming and warm. You're off on tour with them in April, aren't you?"

"Yes, bricking it," I confessed, looking about the loft space, taking note of the mixing board in the corner. "Adie and I have never played live. Who knows what we're going to put together."

Kieran followed my eyes towards the equipment and nodded. "Well, feel free to use anything that's here. It's a great space to rehearse, no hassle from the neighbours. Oh, yeah - there's an anarchist printing press downstairs, they won't bother about the music. Though I do warn you, they will throw massive squat parties on  May Day." He lit the spliff and handed it to me.

I leaned back against the tatty leather of the sofa and inhaled deeply. "I don't think I'll be here for that. I'll be in Japan, with Thom, please god. I think. I'm not sure, actually."

Kieran swung his legs up onto the sofa, distributing his long, lean frame along the gaping cushions, even as Bob mewled his complaint at being disturbed. "So. Um. Are you and Thom... Have you got something going on?"

"No," I insisted, firmly. Why did people keep asking? "We do not have anything going on. Not like you mean."

He smiled with his eyes as well as his mouth that time, leaned forward and looked like he was about to ask something, but the buzzer of the front door rang out like a shot. "Come on, I'll show you how to work the intercom." He lifted the old receiver and said "Yup?"

"Pizza and beer delivery boy!"

"Come on up, Adie. Just in time."

Just in time for what? I watched Kieran's retreating back as he stalked over to the kitchen to find plates and glasses. He had exactly the kind of body I had always liked, tall and rangy, with wide shoulders and long, elegant legs. A mass of curly black hair shot off the top of his head, and as it grew longer, it seemed to grow up and out, like a giant mushroom, rather than down his back. He wasn't exactly classically handsome, not like Jack was, but physically, he was what I had always thought of as being exactly my type, even before I'd met Jack, with his long face, his wide, generous lips and his deep, solemn eyes, ringed with long, thick eyelashes.

But then the door rattled as Adie kicked at it, demanding to be let in, and I snapped out of the odd reverie. No, knock it off, Lucy, you're just very stoned, and imagining things. He's just a mate.

It was a comfortable evening. We ate pizza, drank beer and smoked pot, as Adie dug through Kieran's record collection, and kept pulling out rare old gems to pop on the turntables. Kieran relaxed, spreading himself more and more horizontally across the L-shaped Nirvana that was the sofa. For someone as laid back as he was, the music seemed to animate him, knees and elbows twitching along with the insistent jazzy drumming. For a moment, I wished that he wasn't going off on a 3-month tour the next day. He seemed like someone that would be cool to live with, chilled out and relaxed, and yet with an impeccable taste in music.

Adie finally gave up when the last of the beer ran out, and wobbled off on his bicycle, in search of a club, leaving Kieran and I lying on the sofa, our heads almost touching in the breach of the V, listening to a Jennifer Lara record that Adie had left on. "You're staying here tonight, and not pissing off back to Bloomsbury, right?"

"Yeah, that was kind of the idea of me moving all my stuff in," I giggled.

"Cool." He inclined his head, tilting it slightly towards me. "You know... we could go to bed."

I was about to shrug and tell him that I wasn't really that tired, I was just horizontal because I was so stoned, in fact, given the excitement of moving, I was actually quite wired, and didn't actually feel like sleeping at all, but then I caught the double meaning of his suggestion. "You mean, like... you and me, go to bed."

"Yeah." A long lapse of silence, perhaps heightened by the drug running through both our heads. "No pressure, though. At all." The way he said it, I actually believed him. "I'm just putting it out there. We could if you want to."

For a minute, I sat in stunned silence as I turned it over in my mind. "Look, wow. I'm... I'm really flattered. Honestly, I am so flattered, but..." My voice stopped. I had been about to say that I was married, but I wasn't married any more, was I? I was legally separated.

"But." Kieran smiled wryly and seemed to drop the subject, but I felt bad about letting him down - even though he didn't seem the slightest bit let down - and pressed on.

"Look, I have just crashed out of a ten year marriage. And my head is so screwed up and mixed up and I don't know what I'm doing and where I'll be even next week, let alone next year - and besides! I am in no state whatsoever to start a new relationship, no matter how much of an angel you are, and how good you've been to me - and you have actually really been super-good to me, you know. You really have. But... but... you're leaving on tour for three months tomorrow anyway!" My brain just seemed to be twisting out a strange logic all its own that didn't seem to have anything to do with what my body wanted at that moment, which was to reach out and put my arms across the soft tea-coloured band of skin where his t-shirt had ridden up his belly.

"That's exactly why I offered."

"What?"

"Because you're screwed up and mixed up and your ex husband has so obviously completely fucked with your head in every way. Lucy, you're a beautiful woman. You are so beautiful, that when you walk into a club, every man, and even some of the women, stops what they are doing, just to watch you walk across the floor. And yet you walk around with your shoulders slumped, like you think you're trash, because of what this man has done to you. But you are beautiful, and you are strong, and clever, and kind... and I know that you don't want and you can't handle a relationship right now. But I do think that you need a man, a decent man, not someone who's going to mess you about, to take you to bed, and to make love to you, and tell you that you are beautiful, and make you feel like a queen in your empire."

It was the most words that I'd ever heard Kieran say in one speech. In fact, it might have been more words that I'd ever heard Kieran speak to me, ever. But I looked at him, I looked at his soft brown eyes, darkly rimmed with an inky smudge of thick eyelashes, and his solemn lips, and I said yes.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy finds herself enjoying her new single status in more ways than one, as she settles into Kieran's loft in Shoreditch.
> 
> She and Adie manage to figure out a way to preserve their anonymity, even on the upcoming Radiohead tour of Japan. But can Lucy and Thom keep their relationship platonic, with or without Adie's weird cockblocking?

Kieran was a kind and patient lover. Though I'd expected him to be as solemn and slow as his words, there was a playfulness to him, and a joy that made up for my lack of passion - or perhaps I was simply too stoned to feel much passion. But my body responded to his in a way that surprised me. Fucking him felt good - it felt natural and right. There was none of the emotional whirl and confusion that I'd felt for the past six months or so - there was just the light, glancing touch of his fingertips against my skin, raising my nipples, brushing my belly or parting my legs. I missed sex - well, I missed good sex, not that last, awful bruising that Jack had given me. But Kieran was tender, his kisses were designed to delight and tease and tempt, not to humiliate or dominate. And, to my surprise and astonishment, he persisted until he had got me to come, not just once, but several times in succession, asking softly if the movements of his fingers, or his tongue or his cock were better, until he found a rhythm that worked for me, and he pushed my body into orgasms I hadn't realised how badly I needed until they were washing over my body, leaving behind each one a deeper and more lasting sense of peace.

And he held me afterwards, our arms and legs wrapped together, his fingers playing softly with the braids of my hair. As I dozed, he slipped down the ladder to dispose of the used condom, then returned with two cups of weak, very milky chai, which we drank together, bathed in warm, companionate silence, then both of us slipped into sleep.

He woke early, apologising for waking me as he shuffled about, gathering his suitcases and finding last bits of kit. Then he half-climbed the ladder to the sleeping platform, tickled me gently on the soles of my feet until I woke up.

"I've got to go now, I've got a flight to catch. But thank you for last night."

"No," I laughed, remembering the echoes of the orgasms as they made their way up my spine. "Thank you."

He laughed softly and kissed the ball of my foot. "I've left my email address, and some emergency numbers - the plumber, the vet, my mum. Email if you need anything, but if I don't hear from you, I'll assume you're alright."

"OK, I'll try not to bother you, though."

"It's fine if you do. It's fine if you don't. I'll email you about a week before I come home, if I haven't heard from you. Oh, and I'll call from the airport, I won't just walk in unannounced."

"Do you want me to clear out of here before you get back - or do you want me to, I dunno, hang around and wait for you?" I asked nervously, still not entirely believing he was willing to leave it all this open.

"You can be here if you like. You can clear out if you'd rather. Whatever suits you best." 

"I'll probably be here. I think. I mean, no promises. But I'll try to be."

His face lifted, the solemn look giving way to a shy, hesitant smile, and then he pinched my big toe affectionately and was gone.

I dozed lightly, until a loud, clattering noise downstairs made me think that he'd come back. "Did you forget something?" I called out, but there was no answer except a rather indignant mewling, down in the kitchen. "Oh, it's the cats. You'll probably want feeding." I looked around for the colourful hoodie of Thom's that I had been using as cardigan, dressing gown, cover-up and all-purpose security blanket for the past few weeks, but it was nowhere in sight. Well - I didn't entirely remember how I'd got naked so quickly the previous night. I must have tossed it somewhere in sensual abandon. The loft wasn't that big, it would have to turn up eventually. Digging around in the bedclothes, I located Kieran's discarded shirt and wrapped myself in it, then made my way downstairs to feed the beasts. Ah, so now they deigned to be affectionate with me, now they realised I controlled the key to the food cabinet? There was a lesson in there, I was sure of it, but I wasn't sure what. I sung aloud, hugging myself around the waist as I made myself a cup of tea, and fed myself on half a loaf of Turkish bread left in the cupboard, and some tzatziki I found in the fridge. It was going to be a good day. I felt confident and strangely elated, though whether that was from residual THC or lingering aftereffects of the orgasms of the previous night, I couldn't quite tell.

I felt free. Liberated. A kind of lightness that I'd not felt in years flooded my mind like the sun pouring in the skylights. I felt like pulling off Kieran's shirt and dancing about the loft naked, too high up for anyone on the street to see me. And so I did, laughing boisterously as Cosmo and Bob scattered out of the way, my braids flying out in a circle as I twirled about the room. I was alone - but it wasn't a lonely alone - it was a gloriously free and ecstatic kind of alone.

And then my blackberry went, and in about five seconds, as I saw the name on the text, my stomach went to jelly and all the confusion flooded back into my head. My pride and pleasure at having seduced - or having been seduced by - Kieran dissipated in a wave of guilt as I tried to compose myself enough to reply.

 

> **Thom** : so how you getting on with kieran? you all moved alright?
> 
> **Lucy** : Yeah, all settled in. It's a lovely flat. Kieran is so kind to let me stay.
> 
> **Thom** : kieran is one of the sweetest people you'll ever meet. top bloke. did he get off on tour alright?

 

I stared at the phone, wondering if Thom would be quite so enthusiastic if he knew exactly how long Kieran had spent last night, with his face between my breasts, sending shivers of delight up and down my groin with tiny motions of his hips as I sat in his lap. For a moment, I considered texting back to tell Thom exactly how far Kieran's cock fit down the back of my throat, then caught myself. What was Thom to me? What was I to him? What right had he to make me feel this bad? Hell, it wasn't even Thom. What right had I to make myself feel this bad, over Thom?

 

> **Lucy** : Yeah, he left a couple of hours ago. It's just me and the cats now.
> 
> **Thom** : are you cosy? is Kieran's bed comfy?

 

My face flushed as I read his words. I had no idea if he was just being caring and considerate, enquiring as to my comfort, or if he was over the line, insinuating something he had no right to speculate on.

 

> **Lucy** : None of your business, Thom.
> 
> **Thom** : omg i'm sorry i didn't realise how that looked! i just meant... the last time i was round there, he had just built this weird sleeping platform. it looked really cosy. i was imagining you all wrapped up in blankets, sitting up there
> 
> **Lucy** : It's very snug, yes.

 

It also squeaks slightly when he fucks me, I thought to myself, but I didn't write that bit. For fucks sake, why was I doing this to myself? I should put the phone down. Or I should open my email and send Kieran a short, sweet message saying thank you and bon voyage and good luck on the tour, or something that would trigger that lovely, shy, hesitant smile and make him believe that I would still be here, waiting for him, when he got back.

 

> **Thom** : do u kno when the forum is coming back? is it ever coming back? i miss talking to u on there
> 
> **Lucy** : I don't know. I haven't figured out the internet connection here - heck, I haven't even unpacked my laptop. Did you change your passwords?
> 
> **Thom** : i don't even use that email or password for anything. i made it up just to go on the forum. are you excited for the tour?
> 
> **Lucy** : Yes, I'm excited for the tour. I probably need to get hold of Adie and start planning rehearsals now that we've got this lovely big space to rehearse. But he and Steve are really busy trying to get the next single released in Japan in time for the tour.
> 
> **Thom** : is that the single i'm on?
> 
> **Lucy** : Yes. You know this. We discussed all this last week.
> 
> **Thom** : i'm sorry, am i keeping you?
> 
> **Lucy** : No, it's just...

 

I frowned at the phone, not knowing what to type. When had Thom become so clingy? Since I left Jack? Or since he started to suspect I was sleeping with Kieran? Furious had never been like this, Furious had been self sufficient and mysterious, he came and went as he pleased, and left me to my own freedom. Hang on, since when had Thom had to start measuring up to the imaginary Furious? This really was getting absurd.

 

> **Lucy** : ...it's just I've got a lot of unpacking to do. This house is very disorganised. You know what Kieran is like.
> 
> **Thom** : i'm sorry. it's just weird. i'm really quite lonely, rattling around this big house all by myself. it's so odd going from being on tour, constantly surrounded by about 20 people, to suddenly being all by yourself. i feel all at odd ends
> 
> **Lucy** : Oh you poor thing. Look, when I'm settled, do you want to come up to London? I can entertain now I've got this beautiful space. If you're really lucky, Adie will come round and play some records for us.

 

(As a DJ or a chaperone? I wondered to myself.)

 

> **Thom** : really? i think i'd really like that. how about next weekend?
> 
> **Lucy** : Perhaps I should invite everyone round. Ollie and James and Steve and their girlfriends and everyone. Even Khama if I can figure out how to contact him via the astral plane. Should I have a party? A divorce party? Do people do that?
> 
> **Thom** : ha ha, i think kieran would be cross
> 
> **Lucy** : You're right, I shouldn't throw parties here. If the place got wrecked I'd be so ashamed. We'll keep it just you and me and maybe Adie. We can do music.
> 
> **Thom** : no, i meant kieran would be cross if he missed such a fantastic party!
> 
> **Lucy** : Maybe we can wait until he gets back. I can throw him a welcome home party. But yeah, come up next weekend if you fancy. I'll be around.

 

Over the next week, I discovered that I liked warehouse living. I liked the space, and the freedom, and the ability to make as much noise as I liked, long into the night. I assembled the bits and pieces of Kieran's drumkit back together, and resolved to teach myself how to play drums, in order to try and get better at programming, and I had great fun thrashing away at all hours of the day and night - sometimes to the accompaniment of the mechanical grind of the printing press thumping away beneath me to keep me in time. I liked the loft bed, filled with duvets covered in swirling psychedelic Indian patterns from Camden Market and thick wool blankets that the cats liked to claim as their own, nuzzling up to me in the night for warmth.

I liked East London, too, even the tatty Dalston end of the Kingsland Road. I liked the Turkish bakeries with their incredible large, flat, soft bread and their mouth-puckeringly spicy Anatolian Breakfast spread. I liked the closeness of Brick Lane, and the all-night beigel bakery and the even later-closing bars and clubs. I liked being able to roll out of bed at noon, go and buy some records at Rough Trade, catch some bands at 93 Feet East, dance until the sun came up in some grotty basement in Shoreditch, and still stumble into the Russian Bar before last orders as I made my way back home. When I couldn't get Kieran's unreliable wireless to work, I went to drink coffee and check my email at a coffee bar full of trendy looking kids with weird hairdos down on Old Street. This was the life I hadn't even known I'd wanted until I found it out my back door and in my lap.

Adie loved the studio space, and even more, he loved Kieran's record collection. Two or three times a week, he would make the trek up from Croydon, often sleeping over on the sofa so we could practice again the next day. But we were making progress, figuring out how to translate our odd soundscapes and dance records into a live show. Mostly, he would load everything onto the laptop and manipulate it in Ableton, while I played the main riffs live, either on an MS-20 or a Moog Rogue, for that proper old warm analogue sound. But the stage show, that we didn't know how the hell we would manage.

Even when Thom came up to London, I felt so awkward trying to play in front of him. These days, it wasn't actually _him_ I was intimidated by. Alright, I was still slightly intimidated by _him_ , by his soft, delicate beauty, by his fierce intellect, by his sharp, boyish sense of humour - but I had, over the past year, got completely used to playing him my music - well, I was never quite blasé about it, but it seemed more like playing tracks to a trusted advisor, who I was reasonably confident would be enthusiastic and supportive, rather than a scary and intimidating pop star. In fact, that was one of the things I loved most about Thom - how unhesitatingly enthusiastic he was about music that he loved. There was never any pretence at trying to be cool, or checking to see what other people thought before he ventured his own opinion, or that kneejerk cynicism that I'd grown to hate in Jack. If Thom loved something, he was instantly, unapologeticly, unfailingly, that artist's biggest fan. It was something that he never seemed to lose, no matter how big his own band got - his fandom.

But it was just playing in front of people - any people - that gave me the absolute fear. I kept coming round to the other side of the table, turning my back on Thom as I played so I didn't have to look at him.

"As much as I'm enjoying the view, you can't play like that," he insisted cheekily. "Not on our stage."

"Well, don't keep staring at me, then."

"Lucy," sighed Adie. "We're on stage. Of course people are going to stare at us. It's what we're here for."

"You're worse than my brother," Thom chuckled. "He quit his band because he hated being stared at so much."

"You? _Your_ brother?" I shot back, remembering how Thom chucked himself about onstage, soaking up the adulation and love of the audience. "Are you sure you're related?"

"No, I often think I was a changeling, some weird thing the piskies left in the crib to torture my poor parents," he teased back, but something about what he had said triggered an odd memory, the germ of an idea. It was an image I'd seen in a children's storybook, a giant stork flying across the sky with a cloth bundle in its mouth, a clean white bundle with the hint of a shadow inside it, but it wasn't until the bird landed, that you could see there was a baby inside. I wished I could play gigs like that, just wrapped up and flown in and out by a giant bird, so that no one could see my face until it was over.

As Adie and Thom watched, rolling their eyes and giggling, I dug through the piles of junk and DIY odds and ends that Kieran had left lying about the loft. I found a length of rope, and slung it between the platform bed and an exposed pipe on the opposite wall, at just above wall height. Then I found an oversized sheet and threw it over the top, swamping Adie in billowing fabric.

"Oi, what are you doing?" demanded Adie, pushing it out of his face, but I found some bricks and weighted the fabric down, pulling it tight to make a high, peaked roof over our heads, shielding the whole table - and us - from prying eyes. "Oh, I like this. It's a bit like playing in a tent..."

"Yeah, I wonder where you got _that_ idea from," Thom drawled sarcastically.

"No. You played in a big tent. We're going to play in a little tent."

"It's going to get awfully dark in here," Adie warned. "Are you sure you'll be able to see the keys of your synth?"

"Hang on." I crawled out of the makeshift tent, looking through the rubble of Kieran's performance area. Yes, there it was, I knew I had seen one. He had an odd ball about knee-height, studded with disco lights that threw psychedelic patterns of coloured light across the room when switched on. I plugged it into an extension cord, then dragged it across the room and into the tent, setting it up behind us so it illuminated our workbench, and sent weird exaggerated coloured shadows glowing across the fabric in front of us.

"Oh my god," Thom gasped. "That actually looks incredible. You two need to come out here and see this..." But as we emerged from the tent, leaving the lights pulsing in time to Adie's automated loop, the effect was somewhat diminished by not having our shadows. "Hang on, I'll go inside and show you." Thom ducked into the tent, stood behind the table, then started to dance sinuously to the drumbeat. As he said, the effect was stunning, eerie and yet strangely beautiful. It didn't look so much like coloured shadows as it looked like strange glowing monsters twisting their way across the inside of the tent to the time of the music, distorted by the folds of the fabric and the angle of the lights. Every time he moved his head, it sent more shards of glittering colour and shadow-monsters chasing each other across the tent's walls.

"If we do that, on a pitch dark stage, that is going to look well wicked!" Adie insisted, ducking back into the tent to change the music, jacking up the beat to make Thom dance faster, and adding one of his beloved wandering basslines. "You should sneak up from behind and come in and start your freaky dancing like that, when we do your song."

"Ha ha, I'd love that," I laughed. "If we got him onstage with us, but no one knew he was there."

"You and your thing for anonymity." Thom grinned at me as I crawled into the tent.

"You'd have one too if you had a past as embarrassing as mine."

"I have a pretty embarrassing past myself. Three words: yellow hair extensions. But I'm not trying to escape it, I just own it."

"What past?" Adie demanded. "You two are at it again. Is this that thing where she said she supported Radiohead, but she wouldn't give any details about it?"

"She didn't support us, we supported her. Do you really not know this particular bit of Lucy's history?" Thom's eyes sparked with mischief as he leered at me.

"Thom, if you dare tell him, I will actually kill you..." I grabbed at him, trying to put my hand over his mouth, but he wriggled away from me, giggling ferociously. 

"Blackmail material," howled Thom, slipping out of my grip. "You didn't know, that Lucy, and her sister, back in the early 90s..."

As he started to tell Adie, I lunged for him, and succeeded in covering his mouth with my hand, but as he struggled, he knocked us both off balance, and collapsed backwards, pulling the sheet with us, until all three of us ended in a tangled pile on the floor, sheets, rope, spinning coloured disco ball, and the three of us all muddled up together, and laughing hysterically.

"If The Wire could see us now," I giggled, provoking another laughing fit. "Po-faced bedroom noodlers of the 'aardcord continuum, hoist on their own disco ball petard."

Thom emerged, laughing, from under one of Adie's legs, and pounced on me, wrestling me to the floor as I as trying to get up. "You tell Adie about your past, or I do," he warned, trying to pin my arms behind my back.

Adie pulled the last of the sheet off his head and frowned down at us. "If it's as kinky as you seem to be making out, I'm not sure I want to know." He extracted himself stiffly from the pile and limped over to the sofa, throwing himself down and rolling himself a spliff from Kieran's endless stash. "If you two just want to act like this, why did you even invite me along? You're doing that thing you used to do on the forum, where you just go off in your own little world, just the two of you, and pretend like no one else around even matters."

"I'm sorry," I said contritely, pushing Thom off me and going over to sit next to Adie on the sofa. "We couldn't be doing any of this without you. You know that, right? We need you. I need you."

But Adie was still sulking, to the point where I wondered if we had bruised more than his ego. "It's just hittin' me, right now. How much work we have to do, in how little time. And you and Thom just keep skylarking around."

"I'm sorry. Do you want me to go?" Thom's face fell, like a small boy who had been asked to leave the older kids' party.

"No, don't you dare." I moved towards Adie, mussing his hair affectionately, like he was my little brother. "You do realise, don't you, how much he's done for us? Getting our music out there. Getting us known. Taking us on this tour."

"Yeah, I know, and I'm grateful. But we need to get back to work. And you need to quit mucking about. You could have seriously damaged my laptop, and I can't afford to buy a new one. If that thing goes, we're screwed."

We got down to work. Sloping back to the sofa, Thom found a book on organic inner city composting (for Kieran's illicit greenhouse, no doubt) and sat reading it, trying desperately not to disturb us, despite the curious looks he kept shooting us over the top of the cover. We arranged three new songs for the new instrumentation, and went over our set of old ones. And then, finally, Adie relaxed enough to let us goof off, smoking pot and sitting up listening to old jazz records. But as I crawled off, up the ladder to bed, exhausted, leaving Thom and Adie on the massive sofa, Thom moved to go after me, and Adie glared at him.

"I just wanted to see what the platform bed is like, I was here when Kieran was building it," Thom protested limply, but it was obvious his interest was not in the furniture.

"You go right up ahead, if that's what you want to do," Adie growled back defensively. "I mean, she's not married any more, is she?" Thom paused halfway up and halfway down the ladder, unsure whether to go or stay. "But if you two fuck, in Kieran's bed, can you at least be quiet about it? Coz I don't want to have to listen to you making squelchy noises and giggling."

Deflated, Thom climbed back down off the ladder, pulled off his jacket and settled back on the other end of the sofa, wrapping his jacket about his chest, pulled up to his chin like a blanket. But this lasted only until the lights were out, and Adie appeared to be asleep. I was almost asleep myself, dozing lightly in the dark, the new songs still running through my head, when I heard a slight rustle and felt a pressure on the bottom of the bed.

"Shhh," said a voice quietly, and a man's body slipped up under the covers. I recognised the smell of Thom, even in the dark. "I'm not here to fuck you. I just want to hold you." I shifted towards his voice, feeling strong arms enfold me in the dark, the soft suede of his beard against my face as I nuzzled into the side of his neck. "I'll just go back down in a minute," he insisted, rubbing his lips against the top of my head in a lazy kiss, but in a moment, we were both asleep.

I awoke, tangled up in Thom's arms, as our bodies had intertwined during the night until our arms and legs were all wrapped together. Even as I opened my eyes, his flickered awake opposite me. We didn't even speak, we just looked at each other, and his plump lips found mine, nibbling at me urgently. My mouth parted and his tongue worked his way inside as I clawed at him, tangling my fingers in his hair, pulling him towards me, feeling the rough stubble of his beard against my face. All doubts were gone, we were just two bodies in a warm bed and I wanted him on top of me, inside me, right now. He was rubbing up against me, and I could feel his cock against my belly, even through my clothes as he slipped on top of me, his face filling my whole field of vision as he put his hands on the side of my cheeks, pushing my hair out of the way as I moved against him. His body moved lower, I could feel his stiffened cock pressing through his jeans, rubbing between my legs as I untangled my hands and tried to move them lower to push our trousers out of the way. It was really going to happen this time. I was ready, there was nothing to stop this. Thom didn't even protest as I slowly worked his jeans off his hips, he just raised himself slightly, his face shining with desire as he looked down at my lips, like we were actually going to go through with it this time. This could really happen, the two of us locked in a sweaty embrace, him slipping inside me like he was slipping into a warm bath.

And then suddenly there was a noise below us. Thom stiffened, pulling away from me, his ear cocked as he tried to look out into the loft. "It's just the cats," I insisted, taking hold of his face and pulling it back gently towards me. But as he kissed me again, he seemed tense, distracted, the muscles in his back coiled as if for action, his mouth suddenly harder, no longer quite so yielding.

Another noise squeaked and shuffled below us, then "the cats" made their way over to the mixing desk and started to idly muck about with a kick drum sample.

"Oh, for fucks sake, Adie, knock it off, you woke us up," I shouted down at him, feeling resentfully like my sister and I were sharing a bedroom again. 

Thom guiltily climbed off me and flopped back down on the bed beside me, rubbing his eyes. "This is worse than having kids."

"I knew you weren't asleep, I could hear you all moving around up there. You think I want to listen to you two whispering and sighing at one another like a pair of lovesick teenagers?" Adie shot back.

I shot a pleading glance at Thom, but the mood was gone, he was deflated and contrite as he refastened his trousers. "Well, we're awake now," I snorted, climbing out of bed and making my way downstairs to put the kettle on.

"Good, coz I just had the greatest idea for how we can rework the 808 on N159."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adie tries to talk Lucy out of her flirtation with Thom with stern warnings of music industry morality tales. But when Lucy tries to escape her problems by flying to Berlin for a crazy weekend with Mizz Ting, she finds that her problem just follows her.
> 
> And Allen finally gets to the bottom of the mysterious hacker who has been targeting The Loophole - as everyone learns Sleep Furiously's little secret.

I poured the sexual frustration into the music. It was the only thing I knew how to do. Thom found me later, cornering me in the kitchen as Adie went out back to harvest another crop of pot. For a moment, I thought he was going to pick up where he had left off, and moved towards him, playing gently with the collar of his shirt, but he frowned and hunched his shoulders as he thrust his hands into his pockets, shrugging me off.

"Look, about earlier... about this morning..."

"Yeah?" I pouted at him and licked my lips, turning those brief moments of our clench over and over in my mind, remembering the feeling of his cock grinding against me through his jeans.

"Listen, I'm really sorry. I was half asleep. I got out of hand. I shouldn't have... I mean... your divorce. My girlfriend. It's all... I'm sorry."

My fantasy evaporated. "It's cool," I told him, turning away so he wouldn't see the frustration twisting across my face.

"I should probably go home." And yet still, he hung around, looking at me plaintively, as if waiting for something. What did he want? Forgiveness? An absolution? For me to tell him I wasn't mad at him? I wasn't mad at him. I was just... god damn, this was killing me. And from the hangdog look on his face, it seemed it was killing him, too.

"If you want." I didn't really want him to go, but I didn't really want him hanging around my kitchen like he was fishing for forgiveness, either. What did he expect? Did he want me to throw myself at his feet and beg him to stay? That wasn't my style.

"OK. I'll just pop my head out and say goodbye to Adie, then." He dragged his leaving out for another ten, fifteen minutes as he said goodbye to Adie, then made an exaggerated show of looking round the flat for his things. It was like he couldn't commit to staying, but he couldn't fully commit to leaving, either. If just once, he'd turned and asked me _do you want me to stay? Do you want me to sleep with you, stay the night and make love to you?_ I might have turned around and taken him in my arms, but it was that weird prevaricating of his. It drove me crazy.

And when he finally went, my head was in a complete whirl and I didn't know what to think, but I had to sit down with Adie and rework a song with him, going over the new arrangement again and again until I could play it note perfect on the Korg with one hand as I faded in a filter on the laptop with the other.

But Adie hung around, even after we were done rehearsing, playing with the cats and smoking Kieran's dope, ignoring any veiled hints that I might want to be by myself for a bit. When I finally decided to just flop down on the sofa opposite him and stare him out, he drew himself together and looked at me with a sullen teenage pout.

"I don't think it's right, you screwing Thom."

"I'm not screwing Thom - thanks to you." I had nearly 30 years practice being a bratty little sister; I could out-strop him any time.

"You know he has a girlfriend. They've been together since he was at school. He's never going to leave her for you."

"I know he has a girlfriend. I also know his girlfriend has been out in Italy, studying mouldy old poetry, for the better part of a year. Doesn't seem like he has much of a relationship to leave," I shot back.

"Lucy. You... you deserve so much better than being some stupid white boy's thing on the side." The resentment in his voice surprised me, it seemed oddly out of character. For all Adie's talk about Cricket Tests, this didn't seem political at all - it seemed personal.

"He's hardly some _stupid white boy_. He's..." My voice trailed off. I had been about to say Sleep Furiously. Or had I? Was I still more dazzled by the pop star thing that I pretended?

"I know. He's Thom fucking Yorke. He's the pop star you left your marriage for."

"I did not leave my marriage for..." My voice trailed off, outraged. "...for to be abused by some jealous little teenage boy. I think it's time for you to stop making presumptions about my life!"

"Talk about presumptions!" Adie exploded. "You treat me like I'm just a kid... like I'm a fucken child."

"You _are_ a child to me. You forget - you're 20. And I am 29, going on 30."

"21," Adie corrected testily, as if a few months made a difference. "And let me tell you, miss thing, I have seen more of life in my 21 years than you have in your sheltered posh-girl 30."

"Oh," I interrupted. "Is this going to be the Class thing again? How bloody _English_ of you. How about I sing Land of Hope and Glory for your working class roots, and then we'll finish it off with _Oh lift high the banner, the flag of Zimbabwe_. Because I can play the Oppression Olympics just as hard as you can, mate."

"Fuck you, Luce." He just stared at me, as we faced off in détente, then his shoulders slumped. "I didn't mean it like that. I just mean... don't think I don't know the way that married men treat women. Especially black women."

"He isn't married."

"He might as well be." Adie held up his hand, forbidding me from interrupting him again. "You've been married for a decade. You've forgotten how things are. I've seen it, again and again. I have a cousin, yeah? She is the most beautiful girl you've ever seen, and sweet and lovely, too - her and Niamh and Colleen, they were gonna start a group, they could have been bigger than Sugababes. And she fell in love with their A&R, a married man, posh bloke, big-shot, works for Parlophone. Don't fucken do it, all of us told her. My mum and my aunties, too - you've met my auntie, you know how fierce she can be. But _noooo_ , she kept saying. _He loves me, he's gonna leave his wife_. Did he? Did he fuck. She got two kids by him, but she ain't the one that's got the ring and the nice house in Ealing, she got a dump of a council flat in Loughborough Junction. She wasn't clever like you, Luce. But love makes all of us stupid. Don't fucken do it, Luce."

I stared at him, resentfully, trying to process what he was telling me. Thom wasn't like that - he said he wasn't a good person, that he would still bang me, married or no. But he was not a liar, if anything his fault was that he told the truth too much, that he was just unable to lie. Or was he? If he had lied about his name, for so long, could he lie about other things? But instead I just wanted to shoot the messenger. "Just go home, Adie. I'm tired."

"Fine, I'll go. But don't ask me for no more favours," Adie snorted, with all the indignation of his age, stomping about as he collected his things. But as he reached the door and was about to fling it open, he stopped, and turned back towards me. "Luce, there's just so much riding on this. I know this tour, this band and all, it isn't that important to you, in the grand scheme of things. You'll still have a job, you'll still have skills and a life and all. But this... this is my only chance, Luce. I'm never going to get a posh job in a bank. It's this, or it's back to a housing estate for me. If we fuck it up, well, we fuck it up. I take responsibility for that. But if Thom Yorke gets the hump with you and ditches us..."

He looked so vulnerable my anger drained out of me. It was so easy to forget that Adie was just a little boy. "He wouldn't take it out on the band. Do you not know him at all? You've been on the forum as long as I have. Did you not recognise that Sleep Furiously was a man of integrity, no matter what else he was?"

"I hope for both of our sakes that you're right." Putting his bag and his laptop down, he walked over towards me, grabbed me for a quick hug, deposited a quick kiss on the top of my head, then bolted.

 

\-----

 

My posh job in a bank. Adie had hit some kind of nerve with that, not realising how much of a sore point it was. It had been a compromise I'd had to make, while I was trying to keep Jack's and my life together. And yet, now that I was on my own, it had taken on a new desperation. It was true, I didn't really _need_ it, not while I was living for free in Kieran's apartment - and the steady dribble of record sales had actually started to cover my small food budget, even if they would never cover proper rent. And yet, when Kieran came back from tour, I would have to find a place of my own - and I would desperately need the small cushion of savings I was trying to accumulate. But work...  Business was booming in my department, and they were forever trying to get me to increase my hours, even as I was trying to get them to decrease them so I'd have more time to work on music. What they were going to do when I went on tour, I didn't know - but I hadn't actually got around to telling them that I was going on tour quite yet. In my heart, I wanted to quit, to throw caution to the wind and go out on my own. But in my head, I knew I would have to hold onto it.

Allen finally resurfaced, popping up on Instant Messenger during one of the afternoons I was at work, and I realised with a start that the forum had been down for two weeks. I spoke to Adie and MizzTing and Thom so often, by email and messenger and chat that I hadn't actually missed the forum anywhere near as much as thought I would. Perhaps I had finally broken the back of my internet addiction.

 

> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : you're never online any more. you've become a hard woman to catch.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry; there isn't proper internet where I'm staying. I have to use my Blackberry or wait until I'm at work to get online. Have you figured out what happened with the Loophole yet?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : that is a very interesting question indeed. and what's even more interesting is how i ended up finding out
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Well, are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to guess?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : were you ever going to tell me who sleep furiously really is?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Um. Why do you ask? And why now?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i had a little chat with thom while trying to figure out if any of his data had been compromised, and he told me about his little ruse. now i understand why he didn't tell anyone. but i don't understand why *you* didn't tell me. i thought we could trust each other, lucy! i mean, this is radiohead we're talking about.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I'm sorry, Allen. I guess I've been having a hard time processing it myself. Things are complicated, OK? boy/girl complicated, as well as radiohead fan complicated.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : ok, wow. are you... no, i don't want to know.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : No, you don't. I'm not... Look, I'm not. Don't worry. But I don't really want to talk about Thom right now.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : it would have just saved me a few hours of dead ends - i got so paranoid i thought furious might be our hacker, that that was how he knew so much about radiohead tours before radiohead announced them.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Ha ha, well, at least you know how he knew now. Who is the hacker, though? Are you going to tell me? What did you find out in your investigations?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : nada. zilch. zippo. our haX0r, he had 133T skillz, he left no trace. very skilful at masking his ip and covering his tracks. but there's one thing he didn't think to cover.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I can't believe that there's any computer mystery you couldn't solve, Allen.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : the internet hath no fury like an angry 15 year old girl
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : LOL what?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i ran every test i could think of and got nowhere. so i asked princesstelex. she's the only link we have, if she's the one who told adie stuff she could have only heard about from the hacker. of course she played dumb and pretended she didn't know what i was talking about. so i said i'd kick her - and joe - off the forum if she didn't tell me what she knew. and she went 'lol' and made some snide remark that she could sneak back on using one of deusexmachina's sock puppets in about 30 seconds flat.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : DeusExMachina? That cunt? Ugh! I feel really gross knowing he was in my email. Why do people even act like that?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : i dunno. it's an ego thing, for some people. they think that just because they can do something, that gives them the right to. i'm still laughing at what a dumbass telex was - that in telling me how she didn't have to tell me what she knew, she told me exactly what i was after.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : What are you going to do?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : well the first thing i have to do is get the forum off my work's servers and onto our own dedicated host. i can't risk my employer being exposed to something like that again. once we have our own server, i can build a more secure system. i've patched the hole he got in through - in fact, i'm quite glad he pointed it out before someone going after my work's servers found it. but i've got to make damn sure no one else finds any others.
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : How long would that take to set up?
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : it's not the time, it's the expense. i gotta save up
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : How much would it cost? Are we talking hundreds? Thousands? Because I'd kick in for a new server. I'm sure everyone would.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : you're talking something like a thousand quid. i don't think donations are gonna cover it
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Can we do a fund drive? Maybe even hold a benefit gig. Axiom N Atom could do with a warmup gig before we go on tour. Hell, I'm sure if we asked Thom, he'd do a DJ set for us which would guarantee the venue would be full, even if we didn't play a note.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : lucy you are an absolute genius! would you guys really do that?
> 
> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : I would! And I'm almost certain that Adie would, as well. We both owe that forum so much. I'll ask Thom, but he pretty much doesn't need much incentive to DJ, we had to kick him off the decks in the end.
> 
> **SubterraneanHomesickAllen** : u r a star!

 

And so I suggested it to Adie, who jumped at the chance, and mentioned it to Steve, who talked to the booker of 93 Feet East, and suddenly we had a venue for a "secret" gig. Thom, as I'd predicted, was absolutely beside himself at the idea of doing a full DJ set, and put an announcement up on the official site.

Still, there was Berlin to look forward to. The change will do you good, Mizz Ting had insisted. I emailed Kieran to ask him if it was alright if I left Adie in charge of the flat and the cats for a few days, not really expecting to hear back from him - and he emailed back an enthusiastic response with the names and addresses of his favourite coffee house in Berlin, his favourite record shop, and some clubs he thought I might like. The tour was going well, it seemed - he and Dan sounded like they were having a fantastic time. A few days later, there was even another email simply saying "I made this for you, hope you enjoy it" with a link to a mixtape he'd recorded on his laptop during a spare afternoon on the bus. It became my soundtrack for the rest of the winter, bringing the sounds of sunshine and warmth to the cold, grey dark days of late January and early February. It made me feel like he was still kind of there, in the loft, keeping an eye on me, even though he was in reality thousands of miles away, like the older brother I never had.

Adie was thrilled to have the loft to himself - I guessed maybe Interstep Towers and its constant rotation of musicians was an exciting place to live, but not quite as exciting as a loft in Shoreditch. I told him that if he broke anything, it wouldn't be me having words with him, it would be Kieran - which struck the fear of god, or at least hero worship into him enough to trust me to leave him. And I packed my bags and got on a cheap budget flight to Berlin.

MizzTing - Tingie - was a gregarious and generous host. She came out and met me at the airport, and guided me through the complex German transport system back to her apartment. Most things at the airport, and in the hip, cosmopolitan, arty neighbourhood where she lived, had signs marked in a profusion of languages from English to French to Turkish, but I was still glad to have a native to guide me around. The ease with which she switched from English to a stream of steady German reassured me as she dealt with ticket collectors and bus drivers. I fell in love with her flat, way up high in an old apartment building with high ceilings and enormous windows that looked out over the roofs of Berlin. The walls were painted silver, and the place was filled with decaying antiques from junk markets that she had cobbled back together and spray-painted in vivid colours. The overall effect was half opium den and half space age palace, all with Tingie's distinctive style.

We ate oysters - very decadent, and I've no idea how she got them in a landlocked city - and drank champagne the first night, and then Tingie took me to an open mic night at a cafe down the road. It was smoky and dim, and water pipes bubbled all around us, and I could barely hear the poetry, half in German, half mangled ex-Pat English, but the atmosphere just felt electric as Tingie got up to read, rolling her poems off her tongue in her exaggerated diction. I could see at a glance that nearly every person in the place was half in love with her, and that curiosity seemed to extend to me, as beautiful German boys with high, Gothic cheekbones stared at me with open interest and offered to buy me drinks. I blushed and demurred, but I did have to admit, after months of dealing with Thom and his strange dance of flirtation followed by denial, their directness was refreshing.

"Right," she asked, as the cafe's crowd started to thin, dispersing on to later nightspots. "Do you want to go dancing at Ellen Allien's club night, or shall we just head straight to a Sex Club and get you Cirque de So Laid?"

"Tingie!" I shrieked, with my hand over my mouth. "You're not going to try to get me to go to a brothel, are you? I could never... Oh my god, no. I'm a good girl!"

"It's all perfectly legal here," Tingie shrugged, lighting another black Russian cigarette in her ridiculously long holder. "And I am on a mission this weekend, to get you laid. You damn well need it."

"Who says I haven't?" I sniffed back, taking a cigarette from her antique silver cigarette box and lighting it off the candle on the table.

"Oh!" So that caught her attention. "Did you and Furious finally get fast and furious, then...?"

"No," I shrieked. "How many times do I have to tell you? I am not sleeping with Thom!"

She blinked, and her whole face lit up as the realisation dawned. "Oh. Oh, so that explains _so_ much."

"Oh, Christ. I swore I wouldn't tell anyone else. But shit... oh well. Now you and Adie and Allen know. Don't tell anyone else, please. Especially not Telex."

"How many times do I have to tell you, I no longer speak to that child." Tingie rolled her eyes. "So your beloved and beloving internet boyfriend Sleep Furiously is Thom sex-on-legs Yorke and you're still not fucking him. Absolutely inconceivable." She paused as she exhaled a plume of smoke. "Though actually, are you not fucking him, or is he not fucking you?"

"We go back and forth." I closed my eyes and tried to remember the strange sequence of events of why Thom and I had not had sex yet. "It also doesn't help if you have an annoying little brother type for a bandmate who keeps getting in the way."

"Ah. Adie is in love with you - you know that, right?"

"Fuck," I swore. "No, you're being worse than Jack. You think everyone's in love with me. Like my life is some giant romance where every man I meet throws himself at me. I should be so fucking lucky! It's fucking not, Tingie, it's just frustrating and complicated and shit. Sleep Furiously or Thom or whoever is not in love with me. And neither is Adie."

"He is, though. He told me himself. Oops - I'm not supposed to tell you that, either, but I owe you for the Furious / Thom titbit." She made a mock-embarrassed expression, covering her silver-lipsticked mouth with her hand.

"For fucks sake!" This was a world of awkward I just didn't want to even contemplate, so my mind lurched towards denial, then bounced back to indignation. "This just makes things so complicated, in a completely awkward and unnecessary way. He's the one lecturing me on how I mustn't sleep with Thom because it would destroy our band's chances, when he's the one playing with emotional dynamite," I sighed. I needed a drink, badly. "Does this cafe serve alcohol? I need a shot of something very strong right now."

"Coming right up." Tingie disappeared to the bar, then reappeared with two glasses full of virulent green liquor. "Absinthe for two - there isn't anything much stronger than that." She tipped a sugarcube into each then picked hers up. "Cheers." I toasted her in return, choking on the strong drink, but managed to get enough down to soothe my spinning head. "So who _are_ you schtupping, then?"

"Kieran." It seemed odd to say it aloud, like it rendered concrete something that had been only a dream before.

"No way!" That had caught her off guard. "He's so... I didn't even think he liked girls."

"Oh, he likes girls alright." The mental image of his curly black head bobbing between my breasts flashed across my mind. "But it was a one-off. It's not going anywhere. I mean, he's off on tour for three months, then I'm on tour, and that makes it all logistically impossible, but yes, if you're suggesting I need a make-up screw to get over divorcing Jack, thanks, been there, done that, got the t-shirt, lost it at the laundrette."

"OK, OK, Ellen Allien it is, then. I can't wait to show you off to Berlin!" She stubbed out her cigarette and finished her drink in one gulp. "But you are still coming to my anti-Valentine's shindig tomorrow, right?"

"Wild horses could not keep me away." Someone else had said that to me recently. When had I started picking up Thom's phrases and mannerisms?

We bundled into our heavy coats again and set off across the crisp, cold Berlin night to find the next party at the next club. Ellen Allien spun, and Tingie and I danced like mad children, whirling one another round across the dance floor. I never seemed to pay for a drink, they just magically appeared in my hands. Tingie was having some kind of intrigue, with an intense Austrian artist lady, and her burly Kiwi backpacker consort, both of whom seemed to want to take her home - though to paint her, or have a drug-fuelled threesome with her, I couldn't quite tell. Laughing off the debauchery that seemed to follow Tingie around like a pet lamb, I made my way back to the floor to dance. Germans seemed to take the business of dancing much more seriously than we did in London, but Tingie laughed and told me the club was swamped with ex-Pat American hipsters fleeing W and the Bush Regime.

I danced to Ellen Allien, and then Apparat came on afterwards, reminding me oddly of Kieran with his curly dark hair, his intense pout and his sparkling, playful music. Watching him and Ellen Allien interact, I desperately wanted to get on the forum and tell that oaf Windowlicker that actually, she spent a lot more time telling him what to do than vice versa, but as I pulled out my blackberry, I remembered the forum was still down. Still, no matter what, I couldn't resist sending a quick message to Thom, making an amused note of it. He pinged a message back a few minutes later - oh damn, this was going to be hell on my roaming charges.

 

> **Furious** : wait, where's ellen playing? where are you?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Never mind, I told you - I'm in Berlin with Tingie. You couldn't come anyway.
> 
> **Furious** : no - where in berlin are you?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Some club called something like Treasure, I think? My German's not great.
> 
> **Furious** : tresor?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Yeah, that's it.
> 
> **Furious** : do you mind if we swing by later? i'm staying nearby
> 
> **Eyesore** : What? Who's we? And what the hell are you doing in Berlin?
> 
> **Furious** : i could ask you the same question. but i'm in a recording studio with modeselektor - we asked them to do some remixes for us, and they wanted me to come out and hear what they did. we were looking for something to do later.

 

"Would you get off that thing?" Tingie sighed as she came up behind me with another two glasses of white wine. "You are out here to go dancing and get laid with beautiful young men, not spend your whole time on your mobile."

The absinthe had already loosened my tongue. "Tingie, shut up. The man I want to get laid by more than anyone else in the universe is about to come to this club."

She looked confused for a moment. "Kieran?"

"Furious... I mean, Thom."

Mizz Ting's eyes grew huge. "No way! Shit... I gotta fix my makeup..."

The evening took a distinct turn for the surreal, even before Tingie ordered the next round of absinthe. About twenty minutes later, there was a ripple through the club - Berliners were like New Yorkers, they refused to acknowledge celebrities per se, but the atmosphere in the club rippled out from the newcomers as they made their way across the floor. Thom saw us before we saw him - even in a Berlin nightclub, a six foot black woman in a silver frock coat standing by her friend with waist-length braids was hard to miss - and he arrived, wrapped in a thick black leather coat, flanked on either side by two enormous Germans looking like nothing so much as members of the secret service.

But as soon as he threw his arms around me, I forgot everything, I just held on to him, breathing in the scent of his musk, vegan hairwax and boysweat. And then there was a round of introductions, as I stuttered who Mizz Ting was, and Thom introduced the pair of Germans as Modeselektor. People were now openly staring - a pair of beautiful foreign women had been distracting enough, but with pop stars thrown into the mix, even the hipsters of Berlin might intrude. One of the Germans said something about going backstage, and I felt Thom put his hand firmly on the small of my back to guide me off. 

So it seemed German clubs had sanctums of backstage and VIP areas and VIP areas of the backstage, but Thom and his musician mates ensured that we were swiftly ushered into all of them. And eventually I found myself in a small, very red, very plushly upholstered room that seemed to be all sofa, with carpet on the barrelled ceiling, as if we were in a converted wine cellar deep beneath the street level. I collapsed into the cushions, sandwiched between Thom and Ellen, feeling more than slightly intimidated.

"I enjoyed your set," I found myself bleating like a fangirl, but she just smiled and asked if I had a cigarette. I shook my head but pointed at Tingie, currently sitting between the two Selektors, all three engrossed in some complicated German discussion I couldn't understand. "It's really inspiring to me to see a woman up on the decks, it's so rare back home in London. I often feel like the only one. Well, I am the only one at my club."

She smiled graciously, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that I was making a fool of myself - apparently in unisex post-Soviet cities, gender was not that big of a deal. But Thom stepped suddenly into the conversation, slipping his arm along the back of my chair as he leaned towards her. "Have you two been introduced properly?" he asked with a sly grin. "Ellen, this is Lucy Wildwood, she DJs at London clubs like DMZ and FWD - though you might know her better as Axiom." He paused for effect. "One half of Axiom N Atom."

I blushed furiously, and wanted to admonish Thom - though honestly I had no right to complain, seeing as how I'd given away his secret to Tingie a few hours earlier - but the look on Ellen's face completely changed, from jaded tolerance to genuine excitement. "Oh mein gott, no way?" Now she was sitting up, leaning forward in her seat to study me. "How exciting! So you are not the Aphex Twin - you are an English woman. We must speak!"And with that, the formalities were over, as she called for another round of drinks and started to grill me on South London bass music. It was like saying the name of my band was a magic password that instantly admitted me to the company of musicians I admired, as Ellen and I started to compare notes. By the second round of drinks, we were bonding over being women in a male-dominated scene, and laughing over the assumptions that the male halves of our production teams did all the work when really, they were so lazy we had to shout at them to keep them in line. And by the third round, we were both banging our hands on the table and setting the world to rights, with a passion that seemed to slightly intimidate Thom, hanging back as he looked back and forth between us, not sure if he was terrified or delighted to be surrounded by such powerful women.

I loved Berlin, I decided, even as Tingie half-dragged, half-carried me, too drunk to even walk properly, up the six flights of stairs to her flat. I loved deep subterranean drinking dens, I loved secret dance floors, and I loved the gang of musicians who had kept ordering more and more rounds of drinks until the sun came up. I had left the club at some ridiculous hour of the morning with an invitation to come and play Berlin, a promise to do some remixes of Ellen's next single, and the phone number of bPitch Control in my blackberry. But despite Mizz Ting's winks and innuendo that Thom was welcome to come back to her flat and use the guest bedroom for whatever purposes he could think of, he sloped back to Modeselektor's warehouse and I was too drunk to object. He had sworn to Tingie that he would come to her show the next evening, though, a fact which had caused Tingie great excitement. And as Tingie drew the thick silver curtains of the guest room, and I collapsed into my bed, I thought to myself, _I love Berlin_.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Thom meet up to go to see Mizz Ting perform at her club... except she hasn't bothered to warn them what _kind_ of club it is.
> 
> And in the heat of the moment, things between them start to slip out of control.

I did not, however, love hangovers, and the beast which had taken up residence in my head after the absinthe wore off was one of the worst I had ever had. I whimpered and pulled the pillows over my head, but nothing seemed to make the headache go away. I was never drinking like that again, I swore. I was going to stick to South London clubs with their mellow dope highs, and Kieran's magical stash of kind herb which never did me wrong.

But Tingie fed me back to health with a greasy fry-up of some odd German sausage and lots of fortifying potato, and we smoked some pot and headed out to wander through flea markets. I bought a vintage army jacket that had been sewn through with psychedelic coloured embroidery, to replace the hoodie that seemed to have either gone off wandering with Kieran or been completely eaten by the cats. Then we had a long, leisurely afternoon meal at another cafe, where every artist or musician in Berlin seemed to drop in, have a cup of coffee with Tingie before moving on to another table and another gossipy conversation. Everyone in Berlin seemed to be working on something, whether they were scoring operas or writing novels or building paradigm-changing web-media portals. It was like Shoreditch on speed, every creative urge pushed to its logical limit in a vast jumble sale of ideas.

And then we made our way back to the apartment, picking up little bits of shopping on the way, so that Tingie could prepare for her performance that evening. I texted Thom and asked hopefully if he wanted to come to dinner, but he messaged back to say that he was busy with Modeselektor all evening, but that he would meet me for a drink before we went to Tingie's show.

"Don't worry over Thom," cried Tingie from her bedroom - sorry, boudoir. "Come and help me pick out a costume. Oh, and you'll have to find something to wear, too."

"I was just going to wear my Grecian frock..." I started to explain, then stopped dead, gawking at the outfit that Tingie had half-on. She was dressed as some kind of bird of paradise, garbed in a jewelled codpiece like the head of a peacock, with glittery green-gold-turquoise feathers reaching halfway across her stomach, but leaving her breasts bare, save for an obscenely large fake emerald over each nipple. On her head was a beaded cap, with layers of green and blue and purple beads hanging down where her hair should be, and a crown of iridescent feathers shooting up into the air. "You look absolutely amazing, but... what are you going to wear..." I gestured vaguely towards my own chest. "Up top?"

"No, this is it. But I was just wondering, should I wear my thigh high green suede boots, or my snakeskin stilettos?"

"I would think you'd be warmer in suede boots," I tried to suggest sensibly, but Tingie rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure whether I'm going to feel underdressed or overdressed next to you."

"You are definite underdressed. And you are not going out in that little white dress I have seen you in, in every photo that there is up on MySpace or on the WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE thread! I forbid it. Look in my closets and find yourself something special."

"I can't wear your clothes. You're about six inches taller than me, and a great deal thinner."

"You'd be surprised how it balances out. Though if you don't wear something that does justice to your amazing behind, I will kick said behind sharply. Here... look at this..." Tingie opened the wardrobe nearest to her and dug through layers of sequins and tassels to pull out something that looked a bit like a metal bikini bottom with a bit of a spangly belt attached.

"Absolutely not. I'm not getting my tits out."

"Girlfriend, if you got 'em, show 'em off! Don't I make the best of what little I got?"

"Good lord, yes, but... but... Tingie, I'm a repressed English public school girl!" I sputtered, even as I opened the other wardrobe and pulled out a daring red dress absolutely covered with layered fringes of jingling beads. "Oh my god, this is beautiful... I've never seen anything so stunning. Is this vintage? It looks like something from the 1920s."

Tingie cast a practised eye over it. "At that length, 60s probably. Though I did customise it quite a bit. I'm a dab hand with a sewing machine. Go on, then, try it on." I felt a bit shy about trying it on in front of her, demurely turning around to slide my jeans off my hips, and the dress on, but then I realised that a woman who was happy to go onstage wearing nothing but emeralds on her nipples was probably not going to be bothered by the sight of my meaty thighs. "Oh my god, it fits you like it was made for you. It's yours, Lucy. It's my gift to you."

"I couldn't," I sighed, even as I gave a little shimmy and watched the beaded fringes fly out in all directions like a scarlet sandstorm.

"You've got to. Now let's see if I can find you some shoes that go..."

"There is no way that your shoes will fit me."

"Honey, I've been going to Berlin flea markets every Saturday for fifteen years. I just collect gorgeous shoes, no matter what the size, if I see something one of my friends might like. And my girlfriends do the same for me. And here you go. Ruby slippers for our magic Dorothy."

I was terrified of the dress, terrified of breaking it, and sending crimson beads scattering all about the apartment - but more terrified of how I looked in it, a devil-woman dress that turned me into a dazzling vision I didn't even recognise in the mirror. I kept my coat firmly on in the street, as Tingie directed me to the bar where I was meeting Thom, then disappeared off to a stage door, the hat box with her crown in it tucked firmly under her arm. I took a deep breath, drew the coat closer around me and tightened the belt, then went inside to meet Thom.

He was waiting in a booth, playing nervously with the wiry tufts of his hair, constantly trying to check his look in the mirror behind him. But as he caught sight of me, he rose to meet me, kissing me on the cheek and handing me a single long-stemmed flower.

"What's this for?" I asked nervously, lifting it to my nose and smelling it, hoping that covered my blush.

"It's Valentine's Day tomorrow, remember?" he laughed, gesturing the waiter over to bring another glass of white wine.

I looked at him carefully, wondering why he was spending the Saturday night before Valentine's Day in Berlin, with me, and not in Italy, with his girlfriend. "Shouldn't you be..."

"Don't say it," he warned. "I'm here, aren't I?"

But the wary look in his eye as he changed the topic made me realise, there would be no personal discussion tonight. We made small talk as we drank our wine, idly discussing Modeselektor's studio, their setup and their synths, but my mind was not on the conversation. I looked at Thom carefully, the light blue button-down shirt that brought out the colour of his eyes, the leather jacket over the top, and all I could think was how beautiful he was, the soft, berry-coloured swell of his lips, the curve of his cheekbones. Yet he seemed to be trying desperately to look anywhere except at my eyes. He took my hand gently and stared at the space where my wedding ring had been, before massaging my fingers distractedly, and we lapsed into silence. Of all the things Furious and I had been together, we had never been silent. I stared at him, at the slightly bruised pink of his lips, remembering what it had been like to kiss him, then realised that he, too, was staring back at my lips. Why couldn't we just do it? Why couldn't we get drunk enough to throw off our restraint and just shout out _I like you, I want to go to bed with you_? He played gently with my fingernails, which Mizz Ting had painted a deep ruby red, to match my dress, then smiled up at me.

"We should probably get going. We don't want to miss Mizz Ting's performance, do we?" he suggested, then called for the bill. 

So much for drinks. We walked over together to the address that Tingie had given me, and squinted up at the building. This didn't look like a venue, but then again, Berlin was strange like that - unassuming and anonymous post-war street-fronts could give way to fantasy wonderlands inside. There was a short queue, almost entirely men, who looked me up and down in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable, so I pulled closer to Thom for protection as we made it up to the window.

"I think we're on the guest list?" I asked, hoping that the slightly terrifying-looking woman spoke English.

"Ladies go free. It's fifty euro for him, though," she told us.

"Fifty euros?" Thom sputtered.

"No, we're on the guest list. We're personal friends of Mizz Ting. She's performing tonight. I'm Lucy, he's Thom."

The woman pulled out a sheaf of papers, rifled through them, then finally nodded us through, but a large bouncer stopped us before we could go through, addressing us in a stream of German. I shook my head and protested that I didn't understand him, but he gestured for me to hold my arms above my head and started to pat me down, lingering a little too long on my breasts for my comfort. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and pulled my blackberry out of my coat pocket, and started another stream of German - though I didn't have to understand much to get the gist of what "Nein!" meant.

"You're not having my phone," I insisted, but he remained firm, pointing to a sign on the wall, declaring in about a dozen different languages NO CAMERAS, NO PHONES, NO RECORDING DEVICES. "What am I supposed to do with it?" I asked, and he just shrugged and pointed to a wall of lockers I hadn't noticed before. You put in a 2 euro coin, left your belongings and took the key. Very efficient, very anonymous, very German. "Is it safe?" I asked, but then looked back and forth between the terrifying woman on the door and the enormous bouncer and decided that it probably was. Thom and I both deposited our phones, then I slipped off my coat, rolled it into a bundle and stuffed it on top of them to try to hide them. Then Thom was given a similar manhandling, and we were allowed through, just as the next two victims arrived.

"Wow, you look amazing..." Thom started to say, taking in my dress for the first time, but as we walked through into the club, his voice trailed off. The breath went out of me, too. Tingie had told me she performed in an exclusive club - but she had not told me what _kind_ of club.

All around us, the music throbbed, low, slow and very sensual, like a hypnotic pulse, at a pace that could only be described as slow fucking speed. And all around us, people writhed, some just talking, some making out, some actually fucking, overtly and obviously in specially designed peepholes in the walls, most of them either half naked, or dressed in erotic costumes. In one corner of the room, an elaborate tableau was being acted out, as a stocky man in a latex mask, stark bollock naked except for a leather harness holding the cockring his massive erection was straining against, was alternately whipped and buggered by a six foot transvestite in ruby stilettos a little too much like my own for comfort. In the other corner was a mass of writhing flesh I took at first for a twisted conga line, until I realised that each person in the chain had hands, fingers or cocks buried deep in an orifice of the person in front of them.

Thom, wide-eyed, afraid to look anywhere for fear of seeing breasts or genitalia wherever the eye wandered, moved closer to me and grabbed my arm, clinging to me, almost dumbstruck with both terror and curiosity. So this was Mizz Ting's infamous club - a sex club.

I pressed on, dragging Thom behind me, looking for a stage or even just a bar. I needed a fucking drink if I was going to go on with this evening. I wished desperately for my phone, so I could at least text Tingie and ask her where the hell she was and where the hell she had brought us - then remembered the photo of Thom and me slow-dancing that had turned up on PopBitch and felt very relieved that there were guaranteed to be no photos at all from this club. We found a bar at least, and bought a bottle of wine - I didn't even want to know how many euros that cost on Thom's credit card - and I asked where the stage was, and when Mizz Ting would be performing.

"The cabaret?" the bartender shouted back. "Through the beaded curtain and up the spiral staircase to heaven."

Yet even as I'd left Thom alone for half a minute, a strange man wearing nothing but tight leather shorts displaying the exact width and girth of his erection, had come up to him and taken his chin in his hands, stroking his beard affectionately, as a look of sheer terror crossed Thom's eyes. "Um, excuse me?" I ventured, trying to keep the outrage out of my voice and remain calm.

"I'm sorry, I did not know he belonged to you. Good evening," the leather man responded with a deep bow and wandered off again. I tried to keep my face completely dispassionate, because I was so afraid that if I acknowledged where I was, and what the people around me were doing, I would either freak out and start screaming my head off - or seize Thom by the shoulders and shove my tongue down his throat and my hands down his trousers. But if I stayed calm, and collected, I could pretend that none of this was really happening. Besides, Thom was so on edge, it seemed like the slightest bit of freakiness would set him off, and I desperately wanted to preserve the illusion of normalcy for his sake.

A woman appeared at my side, mesmerised by my beads and ran her fingers temptingly down the side of my arm, but I smiled politely and shook my head firmly, guiding Thom up the stairs until we finally found a small stage and a set of tables and chairs set out for a performance. One couple could clearly not even wait for the stage show to begin, and were fucking rather languidly at the booth next to the only free table - which, unfortunately, had a sign on it, saying it was reserved for our names - but Thom and I did our best to ignore them, chatting distractedly about the laptop and synths already set up on the stage, as if we were at the Corsica Studios, and not some bizarre sex club in deepest underground Berlin. There were people, fucking, at the table next to ours. No, I could not deal with that. But maybe if I just refused to acknowledge it, maybe it would turn out not to be true, just some bizarre projection of my sublimated lust for Thom.

No sooner had we sat down, and poured two glasses of wine, when an incredibly beautiful young man shuffled over to me on his knees, took my hand and addressed me in a stream of German. "I'm sorry," I told him. "I don't speak German."

"Ah. Most beautiful madame. I was wondering simply if you might permit me to worship at your feet."

"Erm, well, I'm not sure I can stop you..." I gasped, as he picked up my foot and held it aloft, marvelling at Tingie's ruby stilettos before quickly slipping my foot out of the shoe and sucking my toes into his mouth. As completely unexpected as it was, it was still such a sensual experience that I found myself gasping, my head lolling back a bit as I found myself becoming incredibly turned on despite myself. And from somewhere inside me, floating up from some nasty schoolgirls' game, a queen's voice found the words to tell him to stop. "Thank you, slave. That will be all, now."

The beautiful boy bowed and scraped, then scurried off again, leaving an astonished Thom staring at my legs, his lower lip quivering. But before he could speak, the low lights grew dimmer, and a spotlight appeared on the stage, as music swelled. And there in the dazzling white light, stood an incredible creature, half peacock, half beautiful woman, her breasts shining with emeralds, the bird's head jutting from her crotch like an ersatz penis. "Wilkommen, meine Damen und Herren," she announced, then walked over to the laptop, pressed a single key, and the music changed, thumping to life.

I couldn't even pay attention to the music. I simply sat, engrossed, as Tingie started to sing, a bizarre mixture of German and French and English, all of it filthy, yet also hilarious, as a gang of beautiful boys wearing nothing but form-fitting satin shorts and fishnet vests appeared from backstage and started circling slowly around her in an avian courtship dance. It was very funny - yet also incredibly sexy - as Tingie pretended to bugger - and be buggered by - the young men, as she flipped her peacock head cock around onstage. The audience roared with laughter, and the couple next to us even stopped fucking for a few minutes, turning around to watch Tingie being carried across the stage on the boys' shoulders, singing all the while.

Curious, I looked over at the fucking pair, but there was nothing remarkable about them at all. They weren't hipsters or arty types - they could have been any nice couple from the suburbs. But the man mistook my curiosity for something else, and smiled at me, his moustache wrinkling up at the corner of his mouth. "Would you care to join us?"

"No, no thanks, we're alright," Thom nodded, dropping his hand to his lap then moving it protectively onto my thigh as if for reassurance. My leg burned where he touched me. I could no longer concentrate on Mizz Ting, or the stage, or anything, all I could do was feel the progress of Thom's fingers, as they encountered the beaded fringe of my dress and restlessly started to fidget with the beads. I wasn't even sure he was aware he was doing it, which made it somehow all the more erotic, but I forced my attention away from his fingers and back to the stage.

Tingie went into an instrumental number, pounding on the synth's keyboard and shaking her tail feathers as the beautiful young men performed an elaborate dance. Another woman came over, perched on the edge of our table and looked down at me. "You have such beautiful breasts. May I take a closer look?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from my left, as Thom's hand clutched closer around my thigh, but the wine was starting to wind its heady way around my brain, along with Mizz Ting's snakelike synth tune. "You may," I heard my voice say, not sure if it was the wine or the music or the presence of Thom's hand on my thigh loosening my inhibitions and casting my morals about like so much confetti.

The woman bent closer. "May I touch?"

I nodded hesitantly, as Thom's hand inched upwards in a sort of instinctive clench of possession, yet the woman bent forward, and with her slim fingers, expertly reached into my dress and pulled out my breast, massaging my nipple gently with her fingertips before bending over and closing her mouth around it, sucking me erect. There was a whimper and a stifled moan from my left, and Thom's hand started to move higher, up under the hem of my dress. Now there was no doubt that he was definitely aware of what he was doing. The strange woman shifted her hand, reached into my bra again and extracted my other breast, pulling them together with her hands so that she could rub her mouth from nipple to nipple. Thom's hand was higher now, his thumb running gently back and forth across the bottom of my knickers, as the woman gave a delighted little laugh.

"These are so perfect," the woman whispered, in heavily accented English. "You should not keep them covered." Cupping them in her hands, she held them aloft as if she were displaying them to Thom. "Are they not beautiful? Do you not find your mistress's breasts an absolute delight? I vould."

There was a hissing whimper of a "yes" from Thom as his fingers moved between my legs. For a moment, I grew paranoid, terrified that everyone in the room could see what we were doing, but when I raised my head to look, I realised that almost everyone in the room was already too engaged in doing similar things to one another to care what we were doing.

"I vant to see you kiss her breasts," the strange woman told Thom. He moaned desperately, but did as he was told, moving forward to press his face against my chest, rubbing his beard back and forth between each nipple before finally latching onto one and sucking. His finger was sliding back and forth between my legs, and had it not been for the cotton of my panties, he would have been inside me.

I looked up at the woman to see that she was rubbing herself between the legs as she moved backwards, towards the man that presumably was her own partner. "Is there somewhere we can be alone?" I asked quietly.

"Spoilsport, to take those beautiful breasts away," the woman sighed, but the man gestured with his head towards a corridor.

I picked up my glass of wine, drained it in one gulp, then took Thom by the hand and pulled him off down the darkened corridor. There were several low doorways branching off it, leading to what looked like secluded alcoves, but the first few I glanced into were already occupied. The second to last was free, so I pulled Thom inside and pushed him roughly up against the wall to kiss him, sucking his tongue hungrily into my mouth as his hands found my breasts again. He pulled away for a moment, and I was scared that he was going to push me off him and tell me to stop, but instead he glanced around wildly. "No door?"

"No one's going to bother us," I told him, pulling him around and leaning back against the wall to find that there was actually a comfortable ledge for me to rest my arse against. Someone had thought these alcoves out carefully. Reaching out, I grabbed him by the waistband of his trousers and pulled him towards me, grappling with his belt.

"Oh Christ," he whispered, lowering his head to my breasts again, sucking at each nipple in turn. "Do you know how long I've been dreaming of doing this?"

"Not as long as I've been dreaming of doing this," I told him, unzipping his trousers and reaching inside to wrap my hand around his cock. He was already hard, his stiffness filling my hand as I started to stroke, moving my hand up and down his shaft, feeling his foreskin slipping under my fingers. He gave a tiny cry as he pushed me fully up onto the ledge, and scrambled to pull my knickers off, pushing his hand between my legs and rubbing back and forth to spread my wetness around. And then suddenly, one of his fingers was inside me, pushing up into me as if searching for something. I pulled his mouth back towards mine, biting roughly at his tongue as I moved my hand roughly up and down him, trying to pull him towards me, wanting him to replace his finger with his cock.

But abruptly, he gave a little cry, and his body kind of spasmed, and suddenly I felt my hand flooded with cascades of wetness. "Fuck," he cried aloud, and pulled away from me, his face shining apologetically as he glanced down, but his semen was all over my hand and he was spent already. "I'm so sorry," he sighed, his eyes filled with sadness. "I'm so, so sorry. I get so nervous. I get too excited and then I... this is why I have never slept with anyone unless I was completely comfortable with them."

"Keep your finger where it is," I hissed, withdrawing my hand, but pulling him towards me again, kissing him urgently. "We can still do this."

"Oh. Right." He smiled somewhat jauntily, kissed me again, then moved his head lower, sucking each of my nipples for a moment before sinking to his knees in front of me, pushing my dress up out of the way, as the beads hung down about his head like a strange frond of bright red hair. He kissed me gently on the belly, then again, once on the inside of each thigh, and then as a second finger pushed up inside me, moving in and out with the slow, sinuous beat of the music, he lowered his mouth to my clitoris and started to suck.

My body pulsed with pleasure as I moved my hips back, letting my knees slip open wider to admit Thom's whole body, as he moved, with fingers and mouth in unison, lapping at my clit. I bent down, tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, moving him at the speed I wanted, until I felt the orgasm building just behind his tongue. I lost control of myself, I thrashed about, my hips bucking into his face, but he hung on, sucking the climax from me, looking up at me with those intense blue eyes as I felt the orgasm ripple up my body. And then I lay back, panting, pulling his face away from me as I tried to catch my breath.

He kissed my vulva one last time, then climbed unsteadily to his feet, pulling me into an embrace, kissing my face, my forehead, though I could still smell my juices on his mouth. He hugged me tight, squeezed my breasts with one hand, then pushed himself between my legs again. "Did we... did that count...?" he asked breathlessly as he tried to rub his flaccid cock back and forth between my labia, but to no avail. Our bodies were both spent.

"Does it matter?" I wished he wouldn't talk, wished he would just hold me crushed against his chest while the hormones still raged about my body, feeling this tough, ferocious love building in my chest.

"We should go back. The music has stopped. I reckon Mizz Ting will be out and looking for us, soon. I'd like to congratulate her on her... performance."

"She'd be delighted if she knew what it had inspired us to do," I chuckled.

"Oh god." Shame and pride mingled on Thom's face as he kissed me again, then pulled away slightly, looking down at my body, my breasts and my vulva still both shining slightly wet with his saliva. He tugged my dress down to cover me, and I thought he was going to do the same with my breasts, but instead he seemed to tug at the dress to arrange them better, leaving them on display as he kissed my nipples again. "Oh god, you are so beautiful. You look like a Minoan priestess with your breasts all bare. I kind of want you to leave them out, so that every man in this place will look at you and feel envy, knowing that you're mine."

_Am I yours_? I wanted to ask, but I remained silent as he pulled me back down the corridor, and we reclaimed our table. _Are you mine_? _Is this a thing now_?

But almost as soon as we sat down, Mizz Ting emerged victorious from a backstage door. Almost immediately, she was swamped with admirers who kissed her, touched her, tried to caress her breasts or stuff money into her costume. She accepted all - drinks, cash, kisses, and declarations of love - with the same good-natured knowing smile, even as she made her way towards us, and flopped down at our table.

"Glad to see you're getting into the spirit of things," she told me admiringly, glancing down at my breasts.

"I couldn't help it," I teased. "Your music made me too excited. My breasts wanted to fuck your bass bins."

Mizz Ting let out a peel of laughter and called for more wine, even as Thom was guiltily trying to readjust himself. His pale blue shirt didn't show much, but there was a rather obvious arc of cream-coloured liquid across the bottom of it. But Tingie swept us up in her good mood, as her admirers came to the table one by one to pay their obeisance, preferably in euros.

We stayed late into the night, the three of us drinking and laughing. In the lazy afterglow of orgasm, I felt happy and content, holding Thom's hand openly, no longer afraid to lavish tiny gestures of physical affection on him, kissing his cheek, rubbing my fingers across the stubble of his beard, squeezing his skinny thighs tickling him gently in the fold of his belly. Mizz Ting made me feel sexy and glamourous and cosmopolitan enough to lavish physical affection on Thom, and Thom seemed to sparkle under the attention.

As Mizz Ting went to change out of her costume, I carefully tucked my breasts back into my dress, and we went to fetch our phones and coats from the front desk. Thom helped me on with my coat like an old fashioned gentleman, then pulled me close as he tied the belt for me, staring down at me with open devotion. "Are you coming home with us? We can do it all over again tomorrow morning," I dared to ask, and suddenly his face suddenly fell.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I have an early flight tomorrow."

"Cancel it. You don't need to go back to England tomorrow." I leaned forward to kiss him again, but his eyes darkened.

"I'm not going to England. I'm going to Italy."

"Oh." It felt like he had driven a shaft of ice, straight through my heart. "Don't do it, Thom. Please."

"I have to. I really do. She's expecting me."

" _I'm_ expecting you."

"Lucy..."

"Break it off with her. Please." I didn't want to start begging, but any moment I was going to start stamping my foot.

"Don't ask me that." His face truly was torn, as if conflicting emotions were raging across it. " _Please_."


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thom chickens out of their affair, Lucy starts a new life and a new career in Shoreditch.
> 
> And Axiom N Atom make their live debut at the benefit fundraiser to buy The Loophole new servers.

As we stepped outside, Thom kissed me one last time, and then he suddenly dropped my hand, and stalked quickly off into the night. When he got about a block away, he suddenly broke into a run, bolting as if in mortal terror. Half of me wanted to run after him, the other half wanted to scream and throw things. Apart from anything else, I had no idea where I was, and I didn't exactly feel safe, standing outside a sex club, once my partner had disappeared. A pair of men standing nearby spotted me, and started walking over, addressing me in broken German that left me little doubt as to their intentions, and quite frankly I was insulted by how little they were offering.

But at that moment, a car horn sounded, and a taxi pulled up, with Mizz Ting and one of her strapping young dancers already bundled in the back. "Hop in, baby, going our way?" she asked as she rolled down the window, but when she spotted me alone, she frowned. "Where's Furious?"

"He's gone."

"What do you mean, gone? Like, gone back to the hotel, gone back to England..."

"Gone back to his girlfriend," I wailed, as I climbed into the back of the cab and collapsed into her arms.

"Oh, sweetheart, he's an idiot and you know it."

"Oh shut up. He's not. You don't even know him. But I don't want to talk about him, let's just not talk about boys at all. Let's talk about synths, and shoes, and record shops, and... and..." I wanted to do anything but talk about him, to stop myself from bursting into tears.

"Let's just go home, girlfriend. Come home with me, you can even come to bed with Gustav and me, and I promise you, we'll make you forget all about him."

"That's very kind of you to offer," I sighed, wondering when I'd walked into a world where it was kind to offer to share your one night stand with a stranger from the internet. "But I would really rather be alone right now."

I didn't forget. Even as I sat on the plane on Sunday evening, the beautiful dress and shoes wrapped up in tissue paper in a bag at my feet, I was still thinking about Thom. Had it helped anything at all, fucking Thom? Or had we even fucked? He was right - did _that_ count? Of course it counted, I tried to tell myself - and yet that thought didn't comfort me, it just made me feel like a slut. Why did people make such a big deal out of sex? Sex was such a nothing. It didn't change anything - or if it did, it only made things worse. It was the emotions that were undoing me, not the sex. Or the lack thereof. The huge gulf I felt tearing open in my chest, every time I started to think about Thom, with his girlfriend, in Italy.

It was another two days before there was another message from him - presumably not until he was back on English soil and away from his girlfriend.

 

> lucy. my love. i'm sorry, that was a mess, wasn't it? the last thing i ever wanted was to hurt you. but we can't do this. or rather, we did it once, and now we know what it was like, and now we have to put the cat back in the box and call it dead. we're friends, aren't we? you once told me that the only thing you ever wanted from me was to be friends. i love you too much to let things go bad like this. please tell me that we're still friends. thom

 

Love. What on earth did he know about love? At that moment, I hated love.

At least Adie hadn't totally wrecked Kieran's loft by the time I got back. And the cats, astonishingly, actually leapt to their feet yowling, and darted across the floor to curl themselves round my legs as I arrived back at home - though I decided to tote that up to the idea that Adie probably had forgotten to feed them, rather than some new feline affection.

I threw myself into work instead. My music was taking on a different tone - less longing, more angst, and yet shot through with glimpses of ecstasy inspired by the music that Kieran had been filling my head with. And I started working on other things for the band.

I wanted to get a proper tent, but after investigating the price of custom canvas marquees, I decided that it just wasn't feasible. The only sort of thing we could afford would be a rubbishy festival tent, which wasn't what I wanted at all. And yet, one day as I was coming down in the lift, the answer fell almost literally into my lap. The lift stopped on the second floor, which I had thought was vacant until I saw two young men standing on either side of a giant piece of machinery. They didn't look like the anarchists - perhaps they were new neighbours?

"Are you going up or down?" the taller one asked.

"Down. Do you need a hand getting that in?" I held the door open as they manhandled it into the lift. "What on earth is it?"

"A weaving machine, I think," the shorter, thinner one replied. "We just bought the loft on the second floor, but we're trying to get rid of all the junk from the deckchair manufacturer that was there before us."

"Weaving? You don't happen to have any heavy sewing machines up there that you're looking to get rid of?" I joked, having been completely inspired by Mizz Ting's way with a needle and thread.

"As a matter of fact, we do. If you help us get this into the skip, you're welcome to come up and take a look. There's a ton of bolts of old canvas, as well, just fraying away in the back. We might as well chuck the whole lot in the skip."

"If you're just going to take it to the tip, I'll see if there's anything I can salvage."

They were computer programmers, they said, and wanted the loft space for their software startup, so they had no need of old fashioned machines, and invited me to take what I liked. By the end of the afternoon, I had helped them clean out their loft, and acquired an industrial scale sewing machine, about a dozen bolts of canvas in various bright colours, and a whole host of sewing equipment. I asked if they were going to put broadband in, and they laughed and told me they were going to put in WiFi through the whole building, and I was welcome to come in on the deal. Reliable internet access again? Finally!

I went to the library and found a book on DIY sewing which included chapters on tent-making, as well as the creation of curtains, awnings and various outdoor constructions. If I could create vintage synth components from schematics I'd downloaded off the internet, following a sewing pattern to make a small tent could not be that hard. Then I went to a lumber yard in Dalston to find lightweight wooden supports, then constructed a good sized tent just large enough to hold the table full of our gear, with a cut out space at the back for the disco ball, and large blank wall at the front to project our shadows onto.

Once that was complete, I couldn't bring myself to stop making things. I invited Jess and Kara up to help with a massive Saturday afternoon tie-dye session, as we speckled the yellow canvas with butterflies and sunflowers, the blue canvas with ships and seabirds and waves, and the red canvas with psychedelic spirals of fuchsia and purple and blue. I got a tape-measure and made curtains for the loft's massive windows, letting through the sunshine but keeping out the cold, as they cast pools of brightly coloured light across the floors. I made stripy canvas walls for the loftbed, which could be let down for privacy, then folded back and tied away to admit light and air. And then I went up to the roof and found myself building a wind-baffle, and a small bower for keeping the sun or rain off while still looking out across the view.

The computer programmers on the second floor loved it, when I invited them to come up for drinks and a few spliffs on a mild afternoon, and asked if I minded if they occasionally brought clients up. I told them that I was fine with it, but they'd have to check it again with Kieran when he came back from tour. Ironically, the first client they brought up for a meeting in the roof bower, now decked out with upholstered cushions and comfortable chairs, didn't just sign up for their service, they also asked how on earth they could get such a lovely pavilion built for the roof garden of their own offices in Clerkenwell.

"You could get yourself a second career," suggested the smaller, thinner one, Carl, as he passed their business card on to me with instructions to drop them an email.

"You mean a third career," I laughed.

"Aren't you and your partner musicians of some kind?"

I smirked at the ambiguity of the word _partner_ , wondering if they meant Kieran, or if they'd seen Adie in the lift. "No, I'm also a computer programmer."

"Oh really? What's your area?"

"SQL. I work with an Oracle system in the office, but I've been fiddling about learning MySQL for a web-based messageboard that a friend and me have built..." I shrugged, the usual mildly technical explanation for people whose expertise I was unsure of.

Carl exchanged meaningful glances with his colleague Krishnan. "How are you finding MySQL?"

"It's a dream compared to Oracle. So light, so scalable. Though I'm not actually sure if it's Oracle I really despise or just working for a multi-national bank..."

Krishnan, the taller, heavier programmer looked over his thick-rimmed geek glasses at me. "How would you feel about being head-hunted to work for a start-up? What kind of package would you be looking for?"

"It's not about the package," I sighed. "It's about the freedom. I'm about to go on tour in April and I have no idea how my boss is even going to react to that..."

"But with MySQL's web-based interface, you could conceivably log on from anywhere, and administer the database," Krishnan suggested.

"Well, that's what we were doing with the Loophole. But, you know, maybe this job building roof gardens for yuppies isn't so bad. At least I could plan my jobs around when I wasn't on tour," I fantasised, knowing it was a pipe dream.

"Or maybe you could come and work for a start-up that would give you a laptop and a wifi connection you could use up on the roof," Carl suggested. "I don't have to give you a business card, do I? You know where our office is."

I gave notice at the bank on Monday. My boss stared at me in disbelief, then tried to pooh-pooh my start-up friends, reminding me of the horror stories of the dot-com crash. The bank was secure, she told me, it was a good future - the financial industry was rock solid, with a bull market that had been running forever - with lots of room for advancement, if I was willing to put the hours in. And I looked at her, knowing the hours that she put in, knowing that it was her nanny that picked her kids up from school, knowing that she had been having an affair with one of the guys over in compliance because she saw her Senior VP husband maybe one evening a month, and I told her, no, actually I was not willing to put the hours in, and I wanted to quit.

I had expected some leeway. I had expected to work out my notice period and maybe get to do a handover with my successor, walking him or her through the complex analysis that I oversaw, but no. This was to be a humiliation, to make sure that the other programmers didn't get any ideas from my departure. I was not even allowed to log on and check my email one last time - thank god I'd closed my browser, though I'd have to change my passwords on all my messenger services. My soon to be former boss called a security guard, who brought a cardboard box, and watched me closely as I filled it with the few personal effects I kept on my desk. Radiohead tickets from the Shepherds Bush Empire, pinned to my drawing board with the photo of Thom and Adie and I at New Year's Eve. A few scattered CDs - Kid A and Up In Flames and Jeff Mills' Waveform Transmissions. A squishy "stress-pig" that someone had given me as a promotion at Canary Wharf station. A pair of uncomfortable ballet pumps I kept for meetings with the bean-counters upstairs. And that was it. I wasn't even allowed to keep the notebook in which I'd scribbled my lunchtime spending for the past few years, for fear I might be stealing valuable programming notes.

Grabbing my box of things, I took the DLR back towards the East End for the last time, and stowed the box in the loft before walking downstairs to tell Carl and Krishnan that I was theirs for three days a week for the foreseeable future.

Divorce, moving, new job, new lover, breaking up with new lover before we'd even started - what else did 2004 plan on throwing at me? I desperately felt the urge to ring someone and just rant, moan, crow with pride, or generally just express my bewilderment at the changes that were befalling me, but who on earth would I tell? For ten years, it had been Jack that I would rush to keep updated with the details of my life - despite his negativity and his endless tearing me down, still, at least it had been someone to keep informed of what was happening with me. Had Furious rushed in to fill that gap, when Jack had become too overwhelmingly negative? Perhaps he had - perhaps the whole forum had, the way we constantly checked in with one another every few days to keep everyone updated with what was going on in our lives. Who was I going to tell now - MySpace?

That reminded me - I needed to change my password, as I couldn't remember if I'd logged off from work or not - so I went online, and got caught up in checking who in my Top 8 was also online. There was Jonny - so I found a funny jpeg of a sad anime robot and posted it to his comments, saying "miss yr diodes." And then a few minutes later, there was a comment back from him, a picture of a giant cat that looked a lot like Cosmo and Bob, sitting on an ARP floating in outer space, with the caption "NOW ASTRO CAT WILL PLAY FOR YOU... THE SYMPHONY OF SPACE!" Oh, and there was MizzTing - even just thinking of her made me both smile and blush, so I found an animated gif of Kelis singing "hey, Dirty, baby I got your money" and left it on her page with about a million little 'x' kisses. Oh, there was Kieran online, his personal account, rather than the band's, though both were in my Top 8 now. I wasn't quite willing to make the same public pronouncements towards him, but I took a quick cellphone photo of Cosmo and Bob sleeping in a patch of paisley sunlight in front of the new curtains and emailed it over with the promise that I had a surprise for him when he got home.

And then, suddenly, I felt a huge gaping hole where I would normally have logged onto IM and engaged SleepFuriously for a surreal chat. I hadn't even spoken to Thom at all in the weeks since Berlin, but I never felt the absence quite so keenly as when I was online. I kept expecting him to pop up with some random comment about Tony B.Liar or the impending jellyfish overlord apocalypse, or asking me how to route a stereo delay, but the radio silence was deafening. If I'd thought it was complicated when it was a purely online crush, that was nothing compared to how complicated it had become, now that we had actually slept together. Well, actually, no. It wasn't complicated at all. It just seemed to be over.

An email pinged back from Kieran. "Is that my flat? You put up paisley curtains? Absolutely love it! Can't wait to see. Getting to the sickeningly homesick bit of the tour. Oh, and here's the latest of the late-nite bus mixes. What are we up to, Volume 5 now? Enjoy. Peace, K"

 

\-----

 

Although I'd thought we had months to prepare, the gig at 93 Feet East was fast approaching. I had actually begun to appreciate Adie's nerves, and was glad of the intensive rehearsing - though the past few rehearsals had been somewhat more serious affairs, without the constant wriggling and giggling presence of Thom. No matter what kind of preparations we made for Japan - flights booked, hotels reserved and power supply converters arranged - it still didn't seem like it really was going to happen until we were loading our equipment in through the stage door off Brick Lane. It was early in the day, and we'd instructed the venue to have bouncers on the door even through our soundcheck, to make sure that no curious press snuck in to spoil our surprise. The venue staff laughed at our oversized pup tent, but when we asked them to cut the overhead lights and we turned on the disco ball, the effect was stunning.

It was going to be tough, trying to preserve the pretence of anonymity, as I was basically going to have to either hide out in the backstage lounge all day, from soundcheck on, or else I was going to have to leave the venue and sneak back in just before the show. Just knowing that there were going to be mates there from the forum, that made hiding out seem impossibly hard.

Thom turned up, just after we'd got everything set up, and just before soundcheck. The bouncer checked his list, let him in, then he slowly made his way across the floor, clutching a silver record crate in one hand as he pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and surveyed the room. When he caught sight of me, our eyes locked, and I couldn't help myself, I just broke into a helpless grin. For two weeks, I had been telling myself how cool I would play it, how I would ignore him, and act all nonchalant and completely unimpressed by him - but one little-boy look from him, knock-kneed and pigeon-toed, playing with his little, child-sized feet with adorable nervousness, and I just melted. He smiled back, scrunching up the hair on the back of his head in that so-familiar gesture, and walked up to the edge of the stage. For a moment, we just stood, staring at one another, before I leapt down beside him and let him throw his arms around me. Oh fuck it, no, it felt good. I wrapped my arms around his waist and laid my head against his shoulder and hugged him back, feeling the warmth of his body, the strong muscles of his back.

"I thought you hated me," he worried aloud as he finally pulled away, looking into my face with a sort of helpless devotion.

"No. I just needed... space," I shrugged, then tried to change the conversation. We could do this, really we could, this _friends_ thing. "What have you got in the box? Can't wait to hear you do a proper DJ set."

"Well, we'll see if I still have the chops to do one. It's been a while - not since college, really, have I had to fill a couple of hours. You or Adie, you really could just hop on and cut in at any time. Help me, out, like."

"I don't believe you. Once we get you on the decks, we'll never get you off," I teased, even as I accompanied him up to the decks set up on one side of the stage, and started digging through his records. It was an interesting selection, a good mix - though not quite as eclectic as Kieran's midnight bus mixes could be. Mostly Warp and Ninja Tune, with some old classic House records and various bits of more abstract hip-hop. Patiently taking his records back from me, he stowed his stuff by the decks, then made his way across the stage to soundcheck his vocals with us.

After soundcheck, Adie decided to piss off for a curry on Brick Lane, but I found that I was too nervous to eat. When was the last time I last played a gig? 91? 92? What was that, 12 years? Christ, it was a long time to be away, and I had forgotten how my stomach turned to molten lava and refused to tolerate even the idea of solid food. Despite the decent selection of alcohol in the backstage rider, I reminded myself that playing gigs - especially a nervous first gig - pissed was an incredibly bad idea, and stuck to sparkling water.

How long was this going to take? I could hear the venue starting to fill up outside, and wished that I had some company, but Thom stuck his head in. "When do you want me to start DJ-ing? Or can I just stick on a mix CD while we're waiting?"

"Yeah, put this on, and come back and chill with me for a while." I dug in my bag and handed him a burned CD of Kieran's Bus Mix, probably Volume 3, the most upbeat of them.

Thom stared at the CD. "Kieran makes you mix CDs? I'm kinda jealous."

Resisting the urge to shoot back _You should try giving him an unforgettable blowjob sometime, then_ , I shrugged and told him to come back quickly. There was a roar from the crowd as Thom walked out to put the CD on - Christ, how many people were out there? Just relax, they were probably there for him, not for us - but he returned swiftly, helping himself to a beer from the cooler and opening it.

"So how have you been? I feel like I've not spoken to you in weeks," he probed, sucking thoughtfully at the lip of the bottle.

"Wow, I guess we haven't spoken. Yeah, a lot has happened. I quit my job, for a start..."

"Yay!" congratulated Thom, throwing his arms in the air with the glee of a little boy. I liked him best when he was like this, full of enthusiasm and joy, like a child in a adult's body. "Full time musician, then?"

"No. I now seem to have three part-time jobs. I'm a musician, I do a bit of free-lance programming, and, well, I make sort of glorified tents."

"Tents." Thom laughed and winked at me. "That's intense."

"Shut up." Oh, how I had missed that childish sense of humour and that wicked grin. "How are you? How have you been keeping yourself when you're not on tour?"

"Busy. Recording bits and bobs, mostly. I did that thing with Modeselektor... oh, but you know all about that." No, please don't bring that up. Berlin was still too sore a memory to touch. "I've decided to record an album. But not a Radiohead album, just a... me album."

"A solo album?" I suggested. 

"No, not a solo album!" he insisted. "I don't want to hear that word. It sounds so pretentious. Self indulgent. It's just a me album. Me, minus Radiohead. Who I am when Radiohead are not around. Just to see if I can do it. Nigel's going to help, and well, Jonny said he'd do some bits and pieces for me... Maybe."

"What does Jonny think?"

"No, he's completely in favour of it. He thinks I should do it - it was almost his idea in the first place. I told him I was thinking of doing it, and he told me, yes, go on, then, just go and get it over with, brilliant idea. It's with everybody's blessing, but... yeah, it's still scary. I need to sit down and, well, think about it. I don't know if I'm ready even to try to write it yet, I might need to sit down and think about what I want to do with it first. If I want to try and be a bit jazzy like Four Tet, or if I want to try to be more electronic, like Axiom N Atom and all Interstep Records or if... I don't know!"

"I think you should just try to be Thom Yorke. And whatever you write, it will be beautiful because it's you."

And with that, he just turned towards me and smiled such a pleased smile I just wanted to melt, even as he took my hands and rubbed them gently. "How do you do that? How do you say exactly what it is that I really need most to hear? Without my even knowing I needed to hear it?"

I couldn't help it, I felt myself leaning towards him, looking down at those plump berry-coloured lips, remembering what it was like to kiss him, the softness of his mouth, the wiry stubble of his beard, the way he rubbed the tip of his nose against mine, the way his long eyelashes sometimes fluttered against my cheek as our faces were pressed together. And he was looking at me in the same way, his eyes growing soft and unfocused as he looked down at my lips.

But before our faces could slide together, Adie clattered up the steps to the backstage lounge, still sucking on a takeaway mango lassi."Come on, Yorke, get on the decks!" he complained. "What are we paying you for?"

"You're not paying me, it's a charity gig," Thom teased back, but nonetheless, he seemed to welcome the interruption, shaking his head like puppy and pulling away from me as if waking up from a dream. "Anyway, point taken. Yes. Wish me luck."

"Break a leg," I called after him, feeling my own nerves kicking back into high gear as our own set ticked ever closer. He played for about an hour, to an adoring audience who mostly just stood there, watching him, rather than dancing, even though he was playing an almost straight-up dance set. When he saw me standing in the door, out of sight of the audience, he turned around to me, pushed his headphones off his ears, then grinned and made an awkward shrug. The girlies in the front row squealed - I couldn't see them but I could certainly hear them. But who was I to talk? A year ago, that would have been me.

We had carefully planned how to handle the transition. As Thom was highlighted with a single spotlight, we slowly brought down the lights on the rest of the stage, and then Adie and I crept into the tent through the hole in the back. As Thom's spotlight dwindled, he put on the first Axiom N Atom single, then slipped away from behind the decks, waving his hands in the air and bowing, soaking up the admiration of all the girlies. But as he distracted the crowd, Adie and I went to work, bringing up our beats carefully to match the song, playing live on top of the record. The soundman worked the master volume, fading the CD player out, and as we reached the end of the long fade-in, and got ready to bring in the first, main riff, the stage went completely black. Arms stretched across the narrow space, Adie's one hand on the laptop, another on the power for the disco lights, my hand hovering over the filter of the Korg... 3... 2... 1... BLAM! The disco lights came up just as the song swaggered into its full glory, and I came in with the synth riff.

Outside, I could hear shouts, applause, screams of surprise, but inside the tent, I remained calm. It was like being in the cockpit of a space shuttle during takeoff, the two of us so practised that we performed everything in unison, like disciplined scientists. It was just like playing in Kieran's loft, just a little hotter and sweatier, as we were both wearing hoodies with the hoods pulled up over our head to hide our heads. We played a few more songs, switching seamlessly between them, thanks to the laptop, feeling the anticipation build. Where was Thom? He was supposed to be singing on the next track, but we could see nothing outside the tent. Had he forgotten?

No, there he was, pushing his way in through the tiny exit hole. "There's going absolutely mad out there," he told us, crouching down beneath the level of the table so his shadow didn't show on the screen outside.

"Really? I wish I could see," moaned Adie.

"I'm really glad I can't see," I cried.

"They're dancing for you, of course. I can't believe they wouldn't dance for me, but they'll dance for you," he snorted.

"Are you ready to sing?" Adie demanded.

"Yeah, hang on - where's my mic? Ah yeah, cheers." He crouched down, going "chh-chhh" in time with the hi-hat to make sure it was on, then, as Adie and I bent our faces low over our gear, he stood up slowly, his distinctive face in profile appearing as a giant shadow on the wall of the tent. I could hear girls shrieking outside as he started to twitch his shoulders back and forth in time with the music, as if he was dancing with his own shadow. And then Adie brought up the bass on the laptop, I started picking out the fractured ghost-chords of the strings on my Roland, and Thom raised the microphone to his face, and started to sing.

We pulled it off. I couldn't believe we really did it, but we'd played 5 songs without Thom, and then 3 more with him - though it was so, so odd to hear vocals that I'd done, on the record, translated into Thom's ethereal upper register, his voice soaring out clean and clear in a way mine never had. And there he was, standing next to me, his eyes glinting in the low light, singing a song to me, that I had written about him, back in those strange days when I hadn't known a Thom, I had just known a strange creature called Sleep Furiously, who I thought I loved.

He reached the end of the vocals, turned the mic off and put it down, then ducked out through the side of the tent, in clear sight of the audience, again mugging it up for the squealing girls in the front row, as Adie and I set the machines to repeat the sequence a three more times, then slowly cut out. We looked at each other in startled shellshock, hugged each other ecstatically, then made our way out through the small hole in the back and made our way back to the backstage. It was over. We had done it.

Backstage was too bright after the dimness of the tent, but Adie found a bottle of champagne and shook it up, spilling it all over us as he opened it, though he did his best to get some of it in our mouths. Thom appeared and joined our manic embrace, whooping with happiness. And then Steve appeared, and Ollie and James - and then Allen's face appeared at the door to the backstage, gesturing towards the bouncer who was trying to hold him back, and I squealed and ran over, telling the bouncer it was alright to let him through. I hugged him and jumped up and down, then I squealed and hugged him some more. And suddenly someone from Mixmag had crashed the backstage party, and was demanding to know who everyone was, and where Axiom and Atom were, and he managed to corner Adie, but no one, not a one of the press paid the slightest bit of attention to the small brown girl in the corner, with one of her arms around Thom's waist, and the other around Allen's shoulders.

We raised more than enough to buy the server, and split the remaining money out among the two of us - we offered a split to Thom for his DJ set, but he just laughed off the idea of even accepting payment. Then again, he was a multimillionaire and Adie and I were still at the point where a few extra twenties could make a real difference from week to week. Allen almost cried when we gave him the money, but he promised he would buy a server and have the Loophole back up and running by the time we got home from Japan.

And then the evening was over, and Adie and I packed all of our gear into a shipping case, with the fabric of the tent stuffed in between for extra protection, and we sealed it up and made it ready to take to the airport with us in a few days time. Two laptops, a Korg, a small Roland, a disco ball, and a mini mixer really didn't take up that much space, when it came down to it. Thom hung around backstage until the very end, and I wondered for a moment if he was too drunk to drive back to Oxford, and if I could tempt him back to the loft... but no. He had stopped drinking hours ago, and was only hanging around to try and shake off the last of the alcohol from his bloodstream before he made his way home. Even as Adie and I hailed a taxi, he helped us bundle the huge case into it, then waved us off as we made our way up to the Kingsland Road.

"We'll see you in Japan!" I called out the window, blowing a kiss as I saw his tiny form grow smaller in the distance.

"No," he shouted back, blowing a kiss back into the night air. "We'll see you on the plane over!"


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieran comes home from tour, and things are complicated.
> 
> And Adie and Lucy join Radiohead on tour, and things are even more complicated.

There was a message blinking on the ansaphone when I got in. I almost didn't hit play, but something was bugging me in the back of my mind, something I thought I might have forgotten in the fuss over the gig. It wasn't until I heard the voice on the tape that I realised what it was.

"Lucy. Hey. It's Kieran. Just giving you a heads up that I'm on my way home. I have a day's stop over in New York, but I have no idea if I'll be able to call you from the hotel. Either way, with the time zones or whatever, I'll be landing at Heathrow on Sunday morning, probably back at the warehouse by about noon? Like I said before, you're welcome to stay at the loft as long as you like. Or you can clear out whenever you like, I won't be offended or nothing. I... well, to be honest I kinda hope you do stay. But it's up to you. Right, phone box's beeping at me for more money. I'll see you on Sunday I guess."

I stared at the ansaphone for a minute, barely believing how fast three months had gone by, and then I looked up and stared around the loft. There were bits of sawed-up wood and offcuts of brightly coloured canvas everywhere. If Kieran was going to be home on Sunday, that gave me two days to clean everything up. I went to bed, exhausted, leaving all my things in a heap in the middle of the floor. And then the next morning, I awoke, rolled my sleeves up, and scrubbed the damn house from one end to the other. I had to walk down to Argos to buy a Hoover, and then walk back to the 99p shop to buy cleaning products and sponges and J-cloths and things, as Kieran didn't seem to keep anything of the sort in the house, beyond a bottle of Ecover and a brush for the dishes. But once I got started, I couldn't seem to stop. I cleaned the bathroom, scrubbing away years of limescale, then went at the kitchen, slightly astonished by the layers of grime I'd somehow just ignored while completely stoned. And then I tidied the main room, put on the dust attachment of the Hoover and hoovered everything in sight, even the ledges above the doors which had clearly been left to gather cat-hair for far too long. I even re-alphabetised his record collection, filing away all the vinyl that Adie and Thom had got out and left in a great pile at the bottom of the shelves.

And then I realised that all of this great flurry of activity was really just displacement activity, and I started to pack for Japan.

Sunday morning, I was actually nervous. I woke early and walked down to Beigel Bake to get bagels and cream cheese and salmon (which had to be carefully hidden from the cats.) I made a pot of coffee, lit some incense and opened a couple of windows to air out the smell of cleaning products that had replaced the vague scent of potsmoke, then I sat down with the Observer to await Kieran's return.

The cats went batshit before I even heard the distant clank of the lift creaking into action, jumping off the sofa and running around the loft, leaping up onto the windowsills then running around like mad things. And then there was the heavy tread of footsteps dragging something across the landing, and I went to open the door, grinning like a fool as I watched Kieran and a taxi driver lug a crate of gear into the flat. I ran to the lift and got his suitcase and pulled it inside as he paid the driver then collapsed in a heap on the sofa, followed swiftly by two delighted cats.

"You're home," I announced brightly. "Coffee? Breakfast? Or do you just want to go straight to sleep?"

"Coffee... breakfast... you're an angel," he replied, grinning up at me with dark-ringed eyes heavy with lack of sleep as I brought him food and drink.

"How was your flight?"

"Excruciating. We hit turbulence aboot an hour outta New York, bumpy ride all the way. No, Cosmo, this salmon is far too tasty for you..."

"Aboot? You've been hanging out with Canadians too much, you're even starting to get a Canadian accent," I teased.

"Am I? Oh god," he moaned. "It's not even the accent? It's the whole... uptalking thing? I found myself doing it after a couple of weeks, eh?" He whacked Cosmo gently on the nose to detach his claws from his shirt, then relented and fed him a tiny piece of salmon. And then, slowly, he started to look about the flat, taking in the curtains, the new cushions, the partitions for the sleeping platform. "I can't believe what you've done. It's like a hippie-chick exploded in here."

"Oh god, you hate it." My face fell.

"Oh no!" His eyes were all apologies, as if gutted by the idea he'd offended me, but the contrite look was slowly replaced by a rare but completely heartfelt grin. "I like hippies. I absolutely love it. The colours... the paisley... the light... that's what I always want my music to sound like. It'll be really inspiring, working in here now now." He turned towards me with that slow smile and took a long draught of coffee. "I'm really glad you're here. You're good to come home to."

"Well." I looked down at my own coffee cup and blushed, remembering suddenly what we'd been doing before he'd left. The look of tenderness on his face as he'd gently touched the ball of my foot then pinched my big toe. Did he think that we were going to pick it up where we'd left off? Did I even want to? I had to admit, it was nice, playing old married couple with him on a Sunday afternoon, with coffee and bagels and the Observer weekend supplements. But... and there was that giant but. "I absolutely loved your bus mixtapes. I'm really going to miss them," I told him, deftly changing the subject.

"I can do you even more, now I'm home and have access to my records." He paused. "And you can maybe make me one?"

"What? _You_ want a mixtape off me? I can't imagine I'd have anything you haven't heard a hundred times before."

"Doesn't matter. I'd just like to have one. It'd be nice to hear how you put things together. Just to listen to." Another pause for a sip of coffee as he lowered his voice so softly I could barely hear him over Cosmo's purring. "Remind me of you when you're on the road."

I stood up and collected the coffee cups, taking them through into the kitchen to refill them, using the time to cover my blush. What were we doing, flirting over coffee? Or what was I doing, _not_ flirting back over coffee? This could be so easy, if we could just get it together, in a way that things were never ever going to be easy with Thom. And yet... No, I couldn't do this. I had already screwed up one friendship with all that misplaced sexual tension. Better to draw a line under things with Kieran.

I brought up the subject in what I hoped was a gentle manner as I returned to the sofa and scooped Bob into my lap. "Thom was well jealous that you made me mixtapes."

"Oh?" His face was so even that I wondered if he even got what I was trying so gently to tell him. "Really?"

"No, not like that, I mean, I think maybe he'd like you to make him some."

"Is there another way you could be meaning it?"

"Um." Christ, Kieran, do I have to spell this out? My face flushed as I looked down at the floor.

Finally he caught my drift. "Have things changed... between you and Thom... since the last time we spoke?"

I forced myself to nod. "I think they kinda have?" It was an almost Canadian uptalk, I was so desperate to make it seem as indefinite as I felt.

"I see." He took another sip of coffee, and for a moment, his face was so indescribably sad that I wanted to tell him it was all a lie, that I didn't mean anything by it, that I was probably just imagining things if I thought that the scenes in Berlin could ever be repeated again, no matter how Thom had been looking at my lips backstage. But then he brightened and smiled, not even a brave and resilient smile, but a genuine smile of pleasure. "I'm happy for you."

"Look, I... I don't even know where things are going. If they're going. What they're doing on the way there. I... it's complicated and confusing and probably premature, but... We're entangled, and I don't want to lead you on."

"It's cool," Kieran assured me. "I meant what I said. I want you to be _happy_. If he makes you happy, I'm happy." There was another long pause as his smile slowly faded, back to his usual solemn look. "Alright, I'm not going to pretend I wasn't hoping for something with you. But that's on me, not you. Maybe I played my cards too slow, maybe I didn't put it out there enough, but I knew what the deal was. And... Well. He's the better man, I guess." His voice was utterly without malice, just very matter of fact, though with the slight edge of disappointment. "It doesn't change anything, though, with you and me. I want you to know that. We're still _friends_."

That word again, that dangerous word. Though somehow I believed it more from Kieran than from Thom. "Do you want me to move out?" My breath caught in the back of my throat as I realised how much I'd come to enjoy living in the loft.

"Nah... not unless you think it would be awkward. I like having a girl about the place. I'll build another loft bed for you, while you're in Japan. I've meant to do it for ages. But it's not like I'm going to throw you out. You can have the sofa."

That actually made me feel slightly sad, though it was patently ridiculous. What had I expected to do, just crawl up in the and carry on sleeping with him, even while I was waiting out this Long Game with Thom? And yet, I would miss that bed. Not just the jaunty curtains, but the Camden Market bedspread that still smelled faintly of joss sticks, and the thick, slightly scratchy red and black wool blankets that reminded me oddly of childhood. My mum had tucked me up in blankets like that, they were South African blankets, one of the few reminders of Africa that she had kept. Come on, Lucy, don't be silly. What's important? The man or his woollen blankets?

"Is there any more coffee, by any chance?"

"Yes, of course, I'll put on another pot." I leapt off the sofa, anxious to be out of the room, not to have to look at his long, rangy body any more, but he pushed his cats off his chest and followed me through.

"You'll have to teach me how to make this. I got really into coffee when I was in Canada. Coffee and doughnuts. Please show me? Maybe I can make coffee for you tomorrow morning, before you leave."

"Oh, Kieran," I sighed. "You are going to make someone an absolutely amazing boyfriend some day."

"But not you?"

"But not me."

 

\-----

 

We barely saw Radiohead on the trip over. As if we needed a reminder that they occupied more rarified heights than us. We caught sight of them just before they joined the checkin queue, and there were introductions all round. I hadn't properly been introduced to Ed, and hadn't met Colin or Phil or their road manager at all - and none of them had met Adie except for Thom. We all hugged, and buzzed excitedly, and Colin made a funny comment about how Adie and I, in the matching black hoodies and dark sunglasses we'd bought specifically for the tour, looked like proper rock stars, while Radiohead, in their baggy jeans and blazers looked like a bunch of middle aged dads going on a road trip.

But then we made our way to the check-in desk, and as they got directed to the first-class check-in and the posh business lounge, it became glaringly obvious who were the rock stars, and who weren't, as we got pushed into the endlessly long Tourist queue. We kept meeting again in passing, seeing each other from opposite sides of tinted glass, catching up in Duty Free but then losing each other again in the boarding lounge. They got to board first, of course, Colin and Phil smiling and waving sarcastically as they breezed past us, and they turned left at the entrance to the plane, while Adie and I waited until nearly the end, and then turned miserably right. Once we were in the air, Adie wanted to go up and say hello, but was turned back by a rather haughty flight assistant. They, however, were occasionally allowed to come back and visit us. Thom smuggled out some complimentary champagne under his jacket and deposited it on my seat-back table as he pretended to loop back and make his way to the loos.

"Have you ever joined the mile high club?" I teased, and a mischievous look crossed his face.

"Not yet, but don't tempt me," he shot back, as if international air space were somehow free of the rules of land-bound relationships.

It was an almost unbearably long flight. Adie played videogames for most of it, while I slept and watched movies, then when the sun came up again, stared down at the ever-changing almost map-like terrain of Central Asia between breaks in the cloud cover. Twelve hours was a long time to spend on a plane, and flying into the sun, across time zones fucked with my concept of time until I no longer knew what time it was supposed to be, either in London, or in Japan. We managed to make our way through customs as a group, then people from the record company met us on the other side. Our case, which had somehow made it through the flight unscathed, was handled by the road manager, and despatched to the venue with a record company flunkie, and then we were all herded onto a train for central Osaka. I was dazed, disoriented, and the whole thing seemed more like a dream, or one of those mad videogames that Adie had been playing, than a tour in a foreign country.

"Don't even try to function the first day," Thom told me. "Stay up as long as you can, then go to bed as soon as it gets dark. It's the only way to cope. Do not crash out now or you'll be dead by tomorrow. Trust me on this one."

We were bundled into cabs at the other end, destined for different hotels, though we had been told to regroup that evening for dinner. Radiohead were to be taken off to the EMI offices to do interviews, photoshoots, press - while Steve had arranged for Adie and I to meet with the head of the distribution network that were handling our records in Japan. 

The Japanese press didn't seem to understand the meaning of the words "no photos" and pushed us to do weird photoshoots, though Adie and I found funny ways to avoid showing our faces. I tore up yet another pair of tights, and we pulled them over our faces to contort our features into odd masks, then did our hoodies up and pushed our sunglasses over the top. We looked like freaks, or aliens with shiny black skin, rippled with the fabric of my tights. Everything did our heads in. The lights, the language, the crowds, trying to do interviews in a foreign language, and all on a bewildering mixture of adrenaline and no sleep. But finally, we were released and someone put us in a taxi to a very posh vegetarian restaurant where Radiohead were all drinking green tea and moaning about being similarly afflicted with killer jet lag.

"I need Saki," Colin insisted, looking over the drinks menu.

"Don't even try drinking or you're doomed," Ed warned in his incredibly posh, slightly clipped accent, reaching over Colin to dip some appetiser in wasabi.

"Don't eat that wasabi or you're doomed," Phil chuckled. "It's about twice as hot as the stuff in England. I still can't taste anything and it's been ten minutes."

"Check out these ace new trainers I got," Thom enthused, though lord knew how he'd found the time to slip out to go shopping. "They're not even on sale in Britain yet."

"Hang on a minute," protested Jonny, looking up from the Japanese music magazine he had been perusing. "Does someone want to explain to me, how Kieran Hebden has _my_ jacket?" He glared at Thom crossly as Thom guiltily took the magazine from him.

"How do you know that's even your jacket? There could be hundreds of hoodies like that in the world," Thom protested.

I took the magazine from Thom and stared down at the beautiful, hazily colourful photo, showing Kieran, looking shyly up at the camera with that hesitant smile, his chest wrapped in a cocoon of brightly coloured yarn that I had not seen since the day I'd moved into his loft.

"Not with my name on it," Jonny insisted. "Thom, it's one thing if you wear my clothes, but if you insist on giving them away..."

"It doesn't have your name on it," I pointed out.

"It does if you're colour blind. That's the point. It was hand made for me. Look, there." He reached across the table and pointed to a wild swirl of psychedelic zigzags in contrasting green and red. I squinted and realised that if you disregarded the colours, and just saw it as a pattern against a brown background, it did indeed say JONNY in wavering letters.

"Thom," I accused reproachfully, turning towards him.

"I thought you'd just wear it from the club to the party. I didn't think you'd go off with it... and I certainly didn't think you'd give it to Kieran," he sulked.

"I didn't give it to Kieran," I insisted innocently. "He must have taken it, the morning after, either by accident, or as a..." I wasn't quite sure what I meant to say. Memento? Trophy? But as Thom looked at me, and some odd expression passed across my face, and in some unspoken communication between us, the knowledge dawned in his eyes, and he realised that Kieran and I had actually slept together.

Surprise. Betrayal. Jealousy. Hideous, filthy jealousy. And then anguish, as he realised how impotent his jealousy was. What right did he even have to be jealous? And yet still, that flicker of desire showed through the whole lot. We didn't really speak again for the rest of the meal, as the conversation moved on from Jonny's hoodie to the various varieties of vegetarian noodles, but the tension flickered between us for the rest of the meal. His hand kept brushing against mine as we reached for dishes - accidentally or on purpose, I couldn't tell, as he could not bring his eyes to meet mine. His leg moved closer to mine - that, I could tell, was purposeful, the way he pushed his knee gently, probingly against mine. I didn't move away, I just pushed right back, trying to force him back to his side of the table, but he kept his leg firm, holding his ground until I could feel the warmth of his body through the thick fabric of his jeans.

After dinner, the group broke into two, as we squabbled over where to go. Phil and Jonny insisted on going back to the hotel to sleep, but Colin suggested early drinks at some dreadful nightclub he had discovered on their first visit, that gave free drinks to Western pop stars.

"Is that place still open?" laughed Ed.

"Oh yes. And if it's Adie's first time in Osaka as a pop star, we really have to take him there," Colin persisted.

Adie's ears perked up. "I would love to see Japanese nightlife! I hear they're mad for dancehall, and all the girls tan themselves really dark and pretend to be Jamaican. This I've got to see." It was the kind of thing that would really tickle Adie's obsession with cultural cross pollination.

"Let's not go to some horrible tourist bar," Ed insisted. "Let's try and find some authentic Japanese nightlife for Adie."

"Just one drink, just one free rock star drink," Colin begged, making eyes at Adie as if that would sway him.

"It's Adie's first time. He should get to decide," Ed pointed out.

As they wandered off, I could hear that Adie had taken a shine to Ed. "So who do you support, then?" he demanded.

"Support in what? Cricket? Rugby? Football? I tend to support Mexico in football, to be honest."

"Mexico?" asked Adie, surprised. "Why Mexico?"

"I like Mexico. My grandmother lived there for some time. I like the people, I like the culture. And besides, with a name like O'Brien, you know I'm supporting Anyone But England," explained Ed in his cut-glass accent.

"ABE," Adie repeated appreciatively, and that was it. He and Ed became instant friends, and stayed that way for the duration of the tour. "You coming, Luce? Fancy some Osaka nightlife?"

"No, I'm exhausted. I'm going back to our hotel."

"Thom?" asked Jonny, as he and Phil flagged down a taxi. "Are you coming back to the hotel with us?"

"No," replied Thom. "I'm going shopping."

"Shopping." Jonny rolled his eyes as he gave up and climbed into the cab. "You owe me a new hoodie, by the way."

And suddenly we were alone, Thom walking beside me, though he insisted at first that he was only walking me back to the hotel through the maze of Osaka. But two streets over, it came out in a strangled mutter. "So you and Kieran... when?"

"It was ages ago. Before he went on tour. Not... that it is any of your business," I sputtered back.

"But it is my business if we... when we... Did you use anything?" Thom's voice was panicked, but I doubted it was STDs he was really concerned about.

"He used protection."

"But we didn't."

"I'm on the pill, and you didn't even come anywhere near me."

"But if..." He balled his hands up into fists, unable to let it go. "You slept with Kieran. And you gave him my jacket..."

"Jonny's jacket. And I didn't give him anything. He just took it, by mistake. He had no reason to think it wasn't mine. And it's not your business anyway, Thom, you're not my boyfriend."

Grabbing me tempestuously by the hand, he whirled me around to face him, pulling me close as he stared into my eyes. "I wish to god I was."

"Thom, don't..." But it was too late. Even as the rush hour pedestrian traffic of Osaka swirled around us, he pulled me towards him and kissed me, his hands on the back of my neck, his lips pressed against mine, the smell of him exactly as I remembered, the taste of his mouth, green tea and soy sauce, the rough burr of his beard against my skin. And when he pulled away, I knew I would do whatever he asked.

"I don't want to just be your friend. Let me be your lover," he begged. "It drives me mad, thinking of you with someone else. I thought it was just Jack... because I loathed him so much. But it's not. Kieran is one of my favourite people on earth, and I hate the thought of you with him. Because I want you for myself. Be my lover."

"Yes," I replied desperately, barely daring to breathe.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Thom finally cross the line into a full-blown affair.
> 
> But can they keep it from their respective bands?

"We can't go to my hotel," he explained as I caught my breath. "I'm sharing a suite with Jonny. Are you sharing with Adie?"

"No. We're in some strange capsule hotel where each of us has our own tiny room with a tiny bed, a tiny washbasin and an almost microscopic shower."

"We're small, we'll fit."

"Not in Toyko, we're not."

He laughed, and I looked around us at the streams of people rushing in either direction. It was true what he had said. In Japan, we were normal sized. Taking me by the hand, he lead me down the street, stopping only at what looked like a giant pharmacy, flashing with the international symbol for medicines. "Wait outside," he told me, kissing me softly before disappearing inside. As I waited, my stomach felt like it was turning inside out, with nervousness and fear and excitement and jet lag, and the odd thrill of realising that he had dashed inside the shop to buy condoms.

We found our way to my hotel, and took the lift up to the 22nd floor, but I laughed at him as he preened in front of the mirror, fixing his tufty hair and making it stand up properly.

"The bed really is tiny. It's going to get completely mussed, anyway, you know."

But his face was serious as he turned back to me. "I want to look good for you."

I wanted to cry, but instead I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. "You never don't look good to me."

I wasn't entirely sure how I managed to find my room again, in the corridor of identical capsule doors, only a few feet apart. But I fiddled with the electronic keylock, and let us in - though there was barely room for the two of us to stand up. The room was actually supposed to be a double, as they'd run out of singles, but I couldn't imagine how tiny a single must have been. There was a tiny cupboard with a folding door in the minute passage, a door leading into an airplane sized bathroom, and then the main room was divided in two horizontally, with two chairs and a television below, and a shelf-bed, like something you'd see in a tour bus, above.

Thom kicked off his shoes, then doffed his jacket, leaving it in a pile on one of the chairs before swinging himself up into the bed. "Christ, this is small. I nearly hit my head."

"I told you so." I had to bend down to unlace my boots.

"Come here." His face looked so worried, I moved towards him almost instinctively, parting his legs and pushing in between, wrapping my arms around his waist and leaning my head against his chest. His hands found my hair, tracing little whirls in the braids at the bottom of my neck, where they were starting to turn to dreads. "Lucy, I'm so in love with you I'm fucked. I can't think about anything else except how much I want you."

I was so tired I thought I might have hallucinated it. I stood, dazed, still just trying to process it, work out what on earth it meant, if it were another Japanese greeting I had to puzzle through. No, he can't have just said what I thought he said.

"You haven't said it back." Thom's voice was taut with insecurity as his fingers stopped circling.

I pulled back, and looked up into his eyes, an odd angle that made him seem so much taller than me. "Furious," I sighed. "I've never not loved you." Finding a foothold on the back of the chair, I climbed up into the bed, and pushed him back down against the covers. "My Clark Kent," I laughed, as I climbed on top of him and held him down, my braids half covering his face as I bent down to kiss him.

"And Superman, too?"

"Everything you are, I love."

We were both tired, exhausted, almost delirious with lack of sleep. We didn't roll around on the bed so much as we just burrowed into it, like two weary animals looking for a place to hibernate. He kissed me, and his hands found my breasts, even as I pushed his jeans off his hips. I didn't even want a long, drawn-out performance, I didn't want fireworks and bells and whistles and twenty-minute tantric orgasms. In a funny way, I just wanted to get it over with as I pulled my clothes off, and felt our naked skins finally slipping against one another. We kissed tenderly, trying to muster passion, but every time I closed my eyes I felt sleep drawing another inch closer. No, come on, I told myself. You're about to fuck Thom Yorke, you're about to fuck _Furious_ and I forced my eyes open again, letting my legs slide open to admit him. He paused to find a condom, rolled it onto himself, then he jacked himself a little way above me, smiling down at me, his face hovering above mine in the half dark with an ecstatic expression as he pushed his way inside me. And his body fit mine like a glove.

We rocked back and forth together for a few minutes, our skins sliding together as we coupled. I was slick with wetness, and I could feel the tension building in my clit, but it was like those organs belonged to some other body, that I was already asleep, and some other dream-Lucy was fucking Furious. Eyesore and Furious, I thought to myself, fucking in a capsule hotel room in Osaka. It was so absurd I wanted to laugh, and I opened my eyes, not even realising I'd closed them. Thom's eyes were closed, his mouth open - he also looked like he was half asleep, and I noticed dark circles under his eyes for the first time.

And then his eyes fluttered open. "Oh god, I'm going to try to hold out until you come... but are you anywhere close?"

"Give me a minute..." I swivelled my hips and tried to get a better angle, getting up enough energy to grind myself against the base of his cock. "Yeah, I'll be there soon." He bent his head and sleepily played his tongue against the tip of my nipple, with the same cat-like concentration that Cosmo would play with a bud of catnip. No! Don't think of cats, don't think of Kieran, don't think of... Thom bit me and brought me back to consciousness again, raising himself up on his knees slightly to bore into me. Yes, that was definitely better. The desire for climax overcame the desire for sleep as I found myself matching his speed, catching the rush of sensation as orgasm broke across my body. "Yes. Yes, I came," I said quietly, hardly the most romantic of sweet nothings to whisper, but the look of relief on his face was palpable. He bucked up his speed a little, changed his angle of attack, pumped a few more times, and then an expression of bliss and animal savagery twisted across his face as he finally came, then slumped back against me, his whole body succumbing to weariness.

"Christ," he said.

_Christ, is that it_? I thought. All those months of prevarication and confusion and torturing one another - for that? A trickle of exhausted orgasm in a Osaka hotel? Was this really such a letdown, or was it just the crushing exhaustion of jet lag?

"I've dreamed about this for nearly a year now. I've thought about what I was going to do to you - how I was going to hold you all night, and coax orgasm after orgasm from your quivering body, but I'm sorry, Lucy, I'm so sorry, I am just... so... so... exhausted..." he finally sighed, as his face nestled into the space between my neck and my shoulder.

"Fucking jet lag," I agreed, and was out.

I don't know what time it was when we finally woke. There was a small window, high up above the bed, that I hadn't noticed before, and daylight was flooding through it, bathing Thom's naked body beside me on the mattress. I looked at him carefully, as if trying to memorise his features, his dirty blond hair flattened against his head, his eyes closed, his face completely peaceful. How many times had I wondered, what his body looked like, beneath his clothes, and now he was splayed out before me. Wide shoulders, a broad chest, lightly dusted with patches of dust coloured hair. He wasn't particularly muscular, but he was the kind of wiry that looked like he would be surprisingly strong. The tiny curve of a belly, slim hips, a neat, tucked-in waist, and short, rather skinny legs, as if whatever god had made him had put all their effort into making an impressive, regal head and shoulders, but run out of clay before getting to his little limbs. But the overall effect wasn't one of weakness, it gave him a slightly alien, slightly supernatural air, as if he were one of the wee people, the Spriggans my Scottish granny used to talk about.

He stirred, wrinkling his nose slightly, like a bunny rabbit, then screwed up his face, sneezed, and opened his eyes with an expression of vague perplexment, as if he wasn't entirely sure where he was. But then he saw me, and he smiled, reaching over to push one of my braids out of my face. "So that wasn't a dream."

"It kinda feels like one, because of the crazy jetlag, but, no. I don't think it was."

He moved closer, rolling over and kissing me gently, just at the base of my ear. "Shall we try that again, just to make sure?" he whispered.

"Yes," I agreed, turning my head to nuzzle my nose against his beard until I found his mouth. For just a moment, our lips met, with an almost electric jolt. Yes, this was real. Sleep Furiously was in my bed. Naked. And I got to grab him by the wrists, and push him down against the pillows, and climb on top of him, straddling him like a horse as I reached for the condoms. I rode him, hard, holding him down, feeling him slipping in and out of me, grinding myself against him, until he cried out, more in ecstasy than in pain, and I clamped my hand over his mouth and hissed "Shhh!" fearing for the other guests in the hotel. Actually, it kind of excited me, knowing that all around me, faceless strangers were sleeping, and yet here were Thom and I doing disgusting and amazing things to one another's bodies. He laughed and grabbed at my hair, pulling me towards his mouth to kiss me, then he deftly flipped me over onto my back and held me down by the shoulders as he swivelled his hips back and forth, thrusting deeper and deeper into me in a sort of corkscrew motion. Christ, his hips and the way they moved, the things they were doing to me inside.

I tried to get the upper hand again, and we wrestled for a bit, laughing and biting gently at one another's faces and necks. But then he grabbed me and pushed me up against the corner, pushing my legs apart with one thigh before entering me again, from behind, his strong arms up under my breasts, fingers cupped around each nipple as he sunk his teeth into the soft meat of my shoulder. I cried out, and this time his hand found my mouth, but I could already feel the orgasm building between my legs. Yes. This time, I was awake, and focused, every nerve in my body feeling concentrated on that exact spot where I could feel the shaft of his cock slipping back and forth against me. And this time, when I came, my moans, the sharp intake of my breath and the bucking of my hips as orgasm exploded across me, left him in no doubt that he had achieved his aim. He laughed, proudly, then moved his arms lower, guiding my hips to the exact angle he wanted, then he thrust faster inside me, shuddered, and was done.

And the _Christ, is that it_? of the previous night was replaced with a new and urgent conviction that actually, _yes, Jesus fucking Christ, that was, indeed, it_. My body reeled, I couldn't quite catch my breath, and I felt tingly all over, light-headed and very, very happy, like I wanted to laugh, and cry, and throw my arms around his neck and shower his face with kisses, so I did all three, almost at once.

Then we lay back together on the tiny bed, noses and knees touching as we just looked into one another's eyes. I had never noticed before the way his freckles were dusted, much lighter, across his paper-white eyelids. The slight variation of gingery blond and almost white hair that formed his beard and his eyebrows. The way his deep blue eyes were lightly flecked with grey. His freckles, Jesus Christ, those peachy-tan freckles speckled across his wide, butter-white cheekbones. He kept smiling, and ever so gently brushing his lips against mine, a kind of fluttering sensation that almost tickled. And I laughed and wrapped my calves around his, feeling his hairy legs against my smooth skin.

And after what seemed like forever, he finally spoke. "There's no going back now."

"I don't want to go back. I want to be with you."

Relief flooded his face. "So this is a thing?"

"This is a thing."

"Can I take you to breakfast?"

"Are you my boyfriend now?"

A crooked smile of pride. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"Alright, then." I didn't realise I'd been holding my breath until I finally exhaled, though I still felt just as light-headed and dizzy with disbelief as I had before he'd accepted.

We sat together in the window of a steamy noodle shop, eating a greasy but delicious breakfast, giggling at one another like a pair of teenagers. Even the way he ate noodles was adorable, slurping them up through pursed lips. I laughed and picked up his serviette to wipe soup off his whiskers and he just looked at me with a gooey expression, and we kissed again. I couldn't keep my hands off him, not even in a dirty way, just that I wanted to keep touching him, rearranging his hair, smoothing down his collar, brushing imaginary flecks of dirt from his shoulders, just to prove to myself that this was real, that he was solid, that this really was Furious - Thom - my boyfriend, sitting next to me in a noodle bar in Osaka. And he touched me back, affectionately, reassuringly, maybe even proprietorially. His palm on the small of my back as he guided me through the door. His fingers twined through mine as we walked down the street. A quick peck on the cheek and a nuzzle behind the ear as we stopped to browse and windowshop.

And oh boy, could Thom shop for England. Though, to be honest, I didn't really mind. It was a bit like playing dress-up dolls, but with a beautiful young man who was willing to try on almost anything. Form-fitting jeans, well-draped linen trousers, richly coloured burgundy corduroys, he loved all of them. A new raincoat, a tweed waistcoat, a loose-fitting white cotton jersey. I went back and found more clothes, and brought them to the dressing room, and he would parade back and forth in front of me like a catwalk model, trying to decide what lines best suited his slender legs. And I was an appreciative audience, but it didn't really matter what he put on - all he had to do was turn to me and smile that gleeful, little-boy smile and I was smitten again. It wasn't the clothes, it was just the man.

"My turn now," Thom announced as he paid for his purchases and carried out his booty in paper bags. "Let's go to the Ladies' department stores and get some things for you."

"I don't think I can afford Japanese prices," I confessed, still trying to work out the steep exchange rate.

"It's my gift," he insisted. "Whatever you wear, I will get as much pleasure out of it as you will. Let me pay for it."

I wanted to protest, but it hardly seemed fair when he'd given me such an entertaining display for the past few hours. So we went to an expensive looking designer shop on a high-end street, and Thom picked out various things for me to try on. His taste was not mine - that became apparent quite quickly - but it felt churlish not to give him the same show that he gave me. He didn't seem to like the brightly coloured, body-con things that caught my eye. He liked severely coloured black and grey things, in soft but structured fabrics. I resisted the ones that made me look too much like some arty Mary Worthington, but then there was a beautifully draped charcoal grey cashmere dress that made me feel like a medieval princess. And a long black tube of a dress with a cowl neck that Thom said made me look like a Henry Moore sculpture. I wasn't entirely sure that that was actually a compliment, until he suggested that we go back to my hotel for a quick romp in bed before heading over to the venue for soundcheck.

As we dressed, afterwards, in the tiny space, he pouted at me pulling on my jeans and my black hoodie as he donned one of his new outfits. "Why don't you wear one of the dresses I bought you?"

"Because I'm going to be spending most of the evening crawling around inside a giant canvas tent trying to get my oscillators in tune."

"You're not going to spend the whole evening doing that. You're going to be backstage. And at dinner with us. And at the aftershow party." He paused as I thought it over. For some reason I'd never thought about all that stuff. If anything, I'd been thinking about going back to the hotel to fuck, and whether we should buy more condoms. "Don't you want to look good for me?"

That comment unnerved me. It was such a casual request, and yet it opened up a tiny gaping hole of insecurity in the bottom of my stomach. "I always looked good enough for you, before," I pointed out somewhat sulkily.

"Never mind, then. Wear what you want, then. Forget I asked." He didn't actually say it in a passive aggressive way, he said it in a perfectly neutral, perhaps even slightly conciliatory tone. And yet, still, I felt bad. After all, Thom was a rock star. A rock star on a prestigious tour in an exotic foreign country. Wasn't he entitled to a rock star girlfriend? Then again, I wasn't quite sure what a rock star girlfriend was supposed to look like. Something like an art star's glamourous wife? I took the grey cashmere Issey Miyake out of its posh paper bag and slipped it over my head. Thom beamed with pleasure and pride, completely wiping away any doubts I'd had.

We held hands in the taxi over, but I watched him carefully, as we grew closer to the venue. "How do you want me to act in front of your band?" I probed.

"Just act naturally. How else would you act?"

"You don't think we should... cool it?"

"Do you think so?" His face grew worried.

"Well... certainly around my band. Adie thinks... well, Adie's been convinced that if you and I got together, it would affect how you treated the band. Like, you wouldn't help us so much once you got what you wanted."

"Ah," said Thom delicately. "So that explains the constant cock-blocking."

"Cock-blocking?" I just looked at his serious little face as he said the ridiculous word, and started to laugh, then picked up his hand and kissed it.

"OK." As I released his hand, he wrapped it possessively around my thigh. "I'll be diplomatic around Adie. So long as you don't expect me to keep my hands off you in private."

"Is it going to change, though?" He hadn't mentioned that part, and for a terrible moment, I was scared that Adie was right.

"What, how I feel about your band?"

"Yeeeeaaaaah."

He laughed and threw his head back. "Are you kidding? I like you even more now I'm banging the cute one." I glared at him, and he relented, shaking his head. "I'm not Jack, don't worry. I will help you if you want it. Because I want _you_ to be happy. It's naught to do with how I feel."


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balancing a tour and an affair with the headlining band's singer proves to be very hard work.
> 
> Especially as the respective bandmates start to get suspicious.

It was like an elaborate game, the way we kept our bodies apart, but kept catching one another's eyes for privately shared moments in the midst of a crowd of people. Adie seemed to be nursing a hangover, as well as jetlag, and was subdued and unusually quiet, but at least he seemed to be in no fit state to pick up on subtle innuendo. We sat on a large flight case in the wings of the stage, watching Radiohead as they soundchecked. It was funny, the contrast between the intense focus of their performances, and the casual way they relaxed and joked casually back and forth at one another during the workaday atmosphere of soundcheck. Thom was such a little show-off onstage, he wriggled like a puppy, he bounced up and down, he teased his bandmates constantly and got back a steady stream of affectionate ribbing in reply. And yet still, he kept looking over at me and smiling, straightening his back slightly when he caught my eye, sucking in his almost non-existent belly and spiking up his hedgehog hair. Jonny watched him like a hawk as he played, and I kept being afraid that he would notice Thom winking at me, and turn around to see me making eyes back at him, but he never did. His concentration was complete.

There was some discussion about whether they were going to go out to dinner, to some fancy restaurant on the record company's tab, but it turned out that the promoter had laid on an elaborate dinner backstage, lots of vegetarian sushi and a very severe looking cook to make extra food to order. And there was even a beautiful young woman on hand to translate our requests, and make sure that everyone got what they wanted, in the way of food, drink and other amenities.

Adie giggled at the opulence of it all, and nudged me with his elbow. "I wonder what she'd say if I asked her to find me a groupie and a blowjob," he sniggered, provoking a fierce look and something that sounded like a Japanese swearword, seeming completely out of place coming from the otherwise immaculately presented young lady. "Dragon lady," he giggled and rolled his eyes.

"That's racist," I giggled back, needling him in the ribs.

"Yeah, I wouldn't let her hear me calling her that. She'd kick my ass. Shao-lin style. But maybe I'd like that." He grinned wickedly, in a way I'd never seen him look over a woman before, and I found myself actually glad of it. Perhaps Mizz Ting's assertion of his puppy crush on me was completely unfounded after all.

"Come on, we've got to get our gear set up," I told him, dragging myself away from both the delicious food and the sultry meaningful looks of my boyfriend. My boyfriend! Christ, could I say that now? Furious - Thom - was my actual boyfriend! My heart did a little skip of joy as I winked at him and made my way back out to the stage to set up the tent.

The tent. OK, this had been a bad idea, I thought to myself, as I realised that highly structured Issey Miyake dresses and setting up temporary structures did not mix very well. Adie laughed and rolled his eyes. "What the fuck did you wear that for, anyway?"

"Look, I can finally afford a few really nice things, and you're going to give me hassle about them?" I snapped back, omitting the fact that it was my rock star boyfriend that could afford Miyake, not me.

"Hang on, mate, let me give you a hand." A proper greasy roadie with a Zildjian t-shirt and a balding ponytail appeared and took the other end of the canvas sheet, holding it up so that Adie could tie it off. I hated feeling like this, I hated feeling like a helpless girl as the men did the hard work, despite the appreciative look the man was giving me out of the corner of his eye. And then I remembered how I'd once thought that Furious was one of the road crew, and I just started to laugh, asking the man's name, and thanking him kindly for the help.

The gig was smoother, after our practice run in London. The venue was so big I could barely even see the audience from the wings, which made it easier to pretend that they weren't there, that Adie and I were just jamming, back in Kieran's loft. There was no intro from Thom this time, so we had to creep our way across a darkened stage and bring up a bright white floodlight in time to the terrifying thump of a couple of 808 kick hits, then started the show from that running jump. It was weird. It felt impossible to get a judgement on how the show was going - the Japanese audience stayed respectfully quiet during the songs, and without obvious starts and finishes to show where one song ended and the next began, they didn't seem to know when to clap. Thom appeared on cue, sneaking in the back of the tent, a surreptitious hand snuck up the inside of my thigh before Adie could turn around. When his distinctive profile appeared on the wall of the tent, as his inimitable voice soared out over the music, at least that got a cheer.

And he sang. He looked me in the eye as he sang, singing those words of longing and lust to me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. He wasn't acting, he was barely even performing - this was real, the tremble in his voice, the light of desire in his eyes. I felt powerless in his gaze, barely able to twiddle the knobs of my synth, a duet between his voice and the unearthly wail of my Korg, echoing him, following him as if I were matching his body with my own body. And then he slipped his arm around my waist, carefully out of the spotlight, gave my arse a quick squeeze, mouthed "love you" at me, then slipped out of the tent to take his bow.

We did our job. We warmed up the audience alright, now completely overexcited from that advance hint of Thom. And then we threw our hoods over our heads and scuttled our stuff out of the way, collapsing the tent quickly as a pair of roadies simply picked up our table and carried it, synths and all, off into the wings. Backstage, Adie and I hugged each other, and whooped for joy. We had pulled it off. We really had done it. The show had gone well, with no terrible disasters.

"God, this is fantastic!" Adie enthused, drunk off the gig and the backstage whiskey. "I can't wait to tour properly, get out on the road in Europe, in America!"

"America?" I stared at him. I hadn't actually planned on doing any more gigs beyond the Radiohead tour. That was special, that was something I had done as much for Thom as for myself. But going out on a proper tour, three months in a van in the Midwest, like Kieran had just done? I just couldn't see it.

Thom reappeared in the wings. He had changed into another outfit to go onstage, and seemed to be trying to psych himself up to perform, jumping up and down and shaking out his muscles to try and limber up. I selfishly wanted him to hug me and kiss me and tell us that we had been fantastic, but obviously he was trying to get his energy up and get focused. Oh and besides, I had told him to leave me alone when Adie was around, a choice I suddenly regretted. His bandmates appeared and joined him, one by one, in the waiting area, the buzz of nerves almost audible as they jostled one another like a gang of small boys getting ready for a kickabout.

And then the introduction music slowly faded out, and the stage lights came up, and it was time for them to file onstage and start the show.

The wave of noise hit me, full in the chest. It was really different, being in the audience, with the noise all around you, and being on the stage, with that incredible wave of sound directed straight at you. Thom stood in the centre of the stage, and raised his hands. He blew a few kisses to the audience, and seemed to lap up the love that rained back down on him, absorbing it, basking in it like sunlight. For the next hour and a half, he no longer belonged to me, he belonged the world. But still, watching him perform was a thrill I would never get over. He was incredible, the way he moved, the way he performed, the way he just radiated love and beauty all around him.

But when he finally came offstage, high on adrenaline and performing, he seized me and swept me off. People were swarming all over the stage, checking the instruments and turning off amps - and backstage was even busier, filling up with VIPs and well-wishers. But Thom took me by the hand and pulled me off down a dark corridor, and stuck his nose into doors until he found an unused room. He pulled me inside, latched the door, then pushed me up against the wall, taking my face in his hands and kissing me roughly. I laughed, surprised, and returned the kiss passionately, tangling my fingers in his hair and wrapping one leg around his waist, but as he pushed his hands up under my dress, trying to force his way between my legs, I pulled back and looked at him.

"Do you want to go back to the hotel?" I asked.

"No. I don't want to wait. I want you now."

I looked around quickly, barely taking in the walls of the small janitor's room, but noting carefully that the door was locked. Thom was insistent, his hands on my breasts, his mouth on the side of my neck, nuzzling my ear in an almost irresistible way. So I went against my better judgement, and let him lift me onto the edge of a large sink, hiked the skirt of my dress up and let him push inside me. The danger of being caught at any moment terrified me - and yet it also oddly thrilled me. I could hear the shouts and calls of the roadies from the stage, half-muffled, but I held my breath, trying to make no sound, even as I heard Thom's breaths growing heavy in my ear.

"Do you want to come?" he asked, though it was obvious from his face that he was already quite close. He had been so turned on by the performance that I'd been able to see the shadow of his excitement right through his jeans for most of the last encore. It seemed unfair to make him wait.

"No, you go ahead. I'll catch up with you later," I told him, biting at his lips and cheekbones.

"Oh god, I get so turned on onstage, all that love, all that energy, I could just... uh... uuuhhh... urgh!" And with that, he grunted, and from the twitching flicker of a grimace that passed across his face, I could tell that he had just come. "Oh yes." He closed his eyes for a few moments, catching his breath, then he opened his eyes again and seemed to notice where he was for the first time. "Oh. Oh, Lucy." But then his face clouded. "You're on the Pill, right?"

"Yes, I am. We're fine," I assured him, kissing the worry off his mouth.

"Lucy, you're an angel to put up with this." He kissed my face tenderly as he pulled out of me, then tried to straighten up, buttoning his flies and then trying to rearrange my dress.

"We should get back before you're missed."

"It's always such a madhouse after a gig, no one will notice I'm gone," he insisted, but as he took me by the hand and lead me back along the narrow corridor, a familiar face appeared at the end, as if he'd been looking for us.

"Oh, there you are," Adie announced, with the edge of suspicion to his voice. I dropped Thom's hand quickly, hoping he hadn't seen. "Mariko wants to know what drinks you want at the aftershow."

"Mariko," I teased. "So you're on first name terms with the dragon lady, now?"

"She's not a dragon lady, after all. She's really nice," Adie confessed with a slight blush. Now that was interesting - but at least he hadn't noticed Thom's dishevelled state, and I quickly made an excuse and snuck off to a ladies' room to clean myself up.

I stared at myself in the mirror, the first proper large bathroom I'd been in, in days. I thought I looked surprisingly good, considering, but the dilated eyes, flushed skin and bruised lips of post-coital glow did a lot to cover the jet lag. The dress suited me - Thom actually had decent taste after all - the soft, warm grey bringing out the rich tones of my skin. But mostly it was the glow of love in my eyes. I was in love, and love suited me best of all. I smiled at myself in the mirror, hugged myself gently, then made a face at the pretty brown girl, and burst out laughing.

Japanese toilets were weird as hell, but I managed to get myself cleaned up and back to the party. Without even really meaning to, I found myself floating to Thom's side, even as he chatted up journalists. But he made me feel completely welcome, turning his body towards me and casting me the occasional sated leer, even as he focused his attention on the informal interview. Most of the journalists spoke at least rudimentary English - so we barely needed Mariko, but I did notice the way that Adie seemed to be manufacturing issue after issue that needed her attention, and she, rather efficiently and slightly long-sufferingly, dealt with them all.

The taxi situation, as we all finally divided up into groups headed for different hotels, was slightly awkward. Thom could think of no excuse to come back to my hotel, so he tried to persuade me to come back to his, even using the cover of having drinks in his and Jonny's suite. Jonny, however, took him at his word, and buzzed round the minibar trying to find us a bottle of wine, even though he only helped himself to orange juice.

"Your show was so exciting," Jonny insisted, flopping down on the sofa next to me in the rather small suite that nonetheless seemed utterly cavernous compared to the capsule hotel. "I really like what you were doing, with the layering of the vocals and the synths. Were you using a Kaos pad to capture and manipulate Thom's voice?"

"No, we were just using an old DD-5 digital delay/sampler pedal. It's not got a lot of memory compared to modern loopstations, but it works really well for just doing interesting sounding things with long delays," I explained, ignoring the anxious way that Thom kept moving over towards his bedroom door.

"So what did you think of my new Max/MSP interface? I've been using it on my guitar, to control the master effects in time with our samples, and it seems to work well, but I'm worried it might all come off a bit, well... griddy. Thom doesn't work well with a grid, do you, Thom, or should I say, Furious?"

"I prefer to keep a more organic feel, more of a groove," Thom replied somewhat sulkily. He didn't seem to like that I was actually, you know, having a drink with him and Jonny instead of racing straight to bed. "So do Phil and your brother, to be honest."

"I didn't really get a chance to check out your laptop setup," I confessed guiltily. After all the time I'd spent talking about effects units with Jonny on the Loophole, I had been too busy watching Thom to even remember to ask.

"Oh well, come over at soundcheck tomorrow and I'll show you. I'll show you the Kaos pad, too - that's what I use to manipulate Thom's voice for Everything In Its Right Place. It's a bit unpredictable, but that's half the fun, really."

But as we talked, Thom kept edging towards the door to his bedroom in a really blatantly unsubtle way. "The jet lag is really getting to me," he hedged, though his eyes were still bright. "We should go to bed soon."

"Oh, but what about Lucy. Shall we call a taxi for you?" Jonny protested, leaping to his feet politely.

"It's fine. She can stay here. We've got the space," Thom insisted. "There's two beds in my room."

"Right, well, I'll come in with you, then, and Lucy can have my room to herself," Jonny offered gallantly.

"No, I don't want to put you out, Jonny," I shrugged disingenuously. "I can take Thom's spare bed, it's fine."

"It's no trouble at all," Jonny chirped, but when he went to the door of his room, he stared balefully in. "Oh. I do seem to have rather exploded everywhere with my clothes," he confessed reproachfully. "You might be better off with Thom."

"And this is mine," Thom grumbled, picking a t-shirt off a towel rack.

"Well, you gave away my favourite hoodie," Jonny protested in return.

"Don't worry, I will get it back off Kieran when I get home," I promised, as Thom and I finally retreated to his room by ourselves. One bed was obviously Thom's, as all the cushions had been piled into a kind of nest, but the other was untouched, so I walked over to it, pulled back the covers and lay down, moving about to try and muss the sheets convincingly.

"What are you doing?" Thom demanded softly, walking over to the radio and turning on some banal J-pop station to cover the sound of our voices. "I thought you were coming with me."

"It'll be a bit suspicious if only one bed's been touched in the morning." I hunkered down in the bed, wrapping the blankets around me and grinning up at him. A mischievous look came over his face as he bent slightly, tensing his compact body for action. If he were a cat, he would have been waggling his tail and getting ready to pounce. And pounce he did, launching himself into the air and landing on my bed, trying to scoop me up in his arms, using the blankets as a kind of net. I shrieked with laughter and tried to fight him off, wriggling out of the knot of blankets as he giggled ferociously and tried to catch and hold me.

A flurry of knocks at the door prevented us from going any further. Releasing me, Thom cleared his throat then retreated to the other bed. "Yes?"

"Is everything alright in here?" Jonny opened the door slowly, as if giving us time to cease whatever it was we were doing, then looked about suspiciously.

"Yes, we're fine. I thought I saw a mouse, but it was just one of Thom's rolled up socks," I hurriedly lied. I was hardly the kind of girl to get excited about rodents, but Jonny didn't need to know that.

"Thom's socks are completely deadly," Jonny agreed, then started to laugh to himself, waving his hands about his face. "Oh no! Not the laundrette!" I just stared at him, trying to think of a polite way to ask him to go away, but it hardly seemed appropriate as it wasn't even my room. "Young Ones? You don't remember The Young Ones? Oh god, we used to watch it endlessly when we were students."

"I haven't watched it since I was a kid," I shrugged.

Jonny's face fell. "Oh well, I'll have to show it to you some time on the tour bus... oh wait, we haven't got a tour bus on this leg of the tour. Never mind, I'll show it to you at some point."

"Jon-Jon, did you want something?" Thom said, slightly impatiently. "We're very tired, and Lucy would like to go to bed."

"Oh, right. Yes. The breakfast cards. We have to fill them out if you want them to bring you breakfast in bed. I didn't fill one in for you yesterday because we all slept so late, but... I thought, tomorrow?"

"Right, just order three vegetarian breakfasts and slip them under the door or do whatever you do with them," Thom snapped, starting to sound almost annoyed. For a moment, I wanted to protest that I wasn't actually a vegetarian, but swallowed the urge. I was happy to eat whatever made Thom comfortable. But why was Jonny hanging around like this? Couldn't he see we wanted to be alone? Or was that exactly why he was hanging around?

"Alright," Jonny sighed, picking up a pen off the dresser. For a moment, I thought he was actually going to stand there, in our room, and fill out the cards in front of us, but he started to move towards the door. "Lucy, do you take coffee or tea?"

"Tea, please." Christ, this was like being little kids on a sleepover and waiting for your Mum to leave. "Thanks, Jonny."

Finally, he wandered out through the door again, ticking off various options on the cards. Thom leapt out of bed again, closed the door behind him, then carefully slid back the bolt. "Right. Where were we?"

"I don't know about you, but I was going to bed," I teased, stretching and yawning, then burrowing back under the covers. A bit of a wrestle, and I'd pulled off the grey wool dress and tossed it over the back of a chair. Thom picked it up and hung it carefully in the wardrobe, tutting at me, though I noticed him craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of my body as I rolled over. That mischievous smile lit up his face again as he carefully untucked the blankets from the end of the bed, then pushed his head, his shoulders, and then his body underneath, kissing his way up my body in the dark cave of the bed as I tried desperately to be quiet enough not to disturb Jonny in the room next door.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thom tells Lucy that when the tour is over, he can't stand the idea of her going back to London, and to Kieran. He wants her to stay on and tour Australia as his lover.

I didn't know if I'd ever get used to it, waking up next to Thom, his beautiful face on the pillow next to mine, limbs chucked about the bed in glorious abandon. I had woken once or twice, in the middle of the night, my sleep patterns still disturbed by jet lag and the unfamiliar bed, and simply lain there and stared at him. Would this ever seem normal to me - Thom fucking Yorke, lying naked in my bed? It had been weird enough, when I first started dating Jack, but that had eventually worn off after a few months, until he stopped being that bloke whose picture I had seen in newspaper articles about Young British Artists and started being the annoying bloke who left the toilet seat up and finished the milk without replacing it. But Thom Yorke? I had been listening to this man's music for more than a dozen years. I had cried to his music, celebrated some of my happiest days with his music, used his music as a balm to soothe my troubled mind, had lusted after him from afar, and then from close up. How could this be a real thing, his broad shoulders slumped against my mattress, his plump lips parted, drooling slightly on the pillow.

Thom Yorke, a pillow-drooler. It was the kind of thing that made my inner fangirl want to stick her fingers in her ears and squeal in protest that it could not be true, the man was perfection personified. And yet, oddly, I felt like a fake. Like I was constantly holding my breath and biting my tongue in order not to reveal how big a fangirl I really was, not to out myself as a massive fucking groupie. Quite literally. And yet... and yet, he knew. He had read the things I'd written about Thom Yorke on the Loophole. Except that hadn't been about _him_ , had it? It had been about some carefully constructed media image of a sensitive yet sexy rock star. The cognitive dissonance was killing me. And then I remembered a joke that Furious had made, another lifetime ago. "ThomYorke is working my arse far too hard. Fucking hate that guy." As if that exaggerated media image of himself was someone he neither recognised nor particularly liked.

I shifted in the bed, and he abruptly stirred, movement flickering to life in his face as he licked his lips, closed his mouth, then opened his eyes. He smiled when he saw me awake, my face hovering above his in the gloom. "What are you doing? Are you watching me sleep?"

"I'm sorry..."

"No, I like it. Makes me feel like I have a guardian angel. What's that movie where angels walk around, just watching people... it's German or something..."

"Wings of Desire."

"Of course. Wim Wenders."

"And one of the angels falls in love with the human he has been watching and taking care of." Except I didn't feel like an angel who had fallen in love with a human being, I felt like a human being who woke to find a supernatural creature in her bed.

The smile on his face was beatific. "We should have gone to visit some of those places, while we were in Berlin."

"We can always go back," I told him. "I'm sure Tingie would love to have us."

He took my hand and gently kissed my palm. "We can go back," he repeated, as if it was only just dawning on him that this was a possibility. That we could go other places, as a couple, that we had a future together beyond this stolen week in Japan. "I'd like that." But then his smile faded as he glanced awkwardly down towards his groin. "I have this sudden urge to make dirty animal love to you again. But though the spirit is willing, the flesh is patently unable right now."

I laughed and bent over to kiss his forehead. "I hate to say it, but I'm kind of relieved. I don't think I physically could, either."

"OK. Just lay your head on my chest and go to sleep, then." He smiled proudly as I did as I was told, sinking my head against that magnificent barrelled ribcage. "I like it when you lay your head on my chest. It makes me feel, I dunno, manly." I laughed and bit the nipple that had risen just by my nose. "Indulge me. It's not something I get to feel very often."

And so, lying with my head against his chest, listening to his heart beating softly against my cheek, I tried to let go of my anxiety and fall back asleep.

 

\-----

 

After twenty-four hours of profligate screwing, I was actually sore. I wanted a nice long soak in a bath, and then to oil my skin where his beard had left stubble burn. So I slipped from the bed before he awoke and made my way to the luxury bathroom en suite - yes! There was an actual bathtub, unlike my capsule hotel. I drew a steaming hot bath and lowered myself into it. After about twenty minutes, Thom knocked softly at the door, and apologetically stuck his head in.

"I'm sorry, do you want to close the shower curtain, while I..."

"If you need to piss, just piss," I laughed and lazily flicked a few soap bubbles at him as he moved over to the loo to relieve himself. This felt cosy, familiar, even as I tried not to stare at his alabaster buttocks. His back was so pale, except for another slight dusting of blond hair down from his shoulders in the shape of wings, and a set of fingernail scratches that made me wince to see them, though he had exhorted me to do it again and again the previous night. He grinned at me as he left, bent down to kiss me on the top of my head, then exited the room whistling contentedly to himself.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, slathered with posh Japanese body lotion and wrapped in a complimentary bathrobe, I found him gone, so I padded out to the lounge area to find Thom, Jonny and Coz all deeply involved in a discussion of the setlist as they ate. "Did you leave me any food at all?" I protested as Coz shifted guiltily.

"I only ate a bit of your fruit salad. Honestly, I had breakfast in me and Ed's room but Ed ate all the melon balls."

"Look, you can have mine," Jonny offered in consolation.

I wanted so badly to sit with Thom, to ruffle his hair and put my hand down the waistband of his sweatpants and give his balls a little squeeze, but I resisted, settling at the table to eat what the boys had left of the food. My presence was quickly forgotten as they got back to business, leaving me free to watch the dynamic of three of them, how Jonny deferred to his older brother, and how both of them acquiesced to Thom, even as they gently ribbed him about his bossiness. Thom was clearly a man used to getting his own way, but it was the subtle reprimands of his friends that kept him from becoming a despot.

They finished their setlist over brunch, then started to fuss over what time their taxi was coming to take them to the venue. Thom insisted that he needed a shower, as I returned to his room to dress. I didn't want to wear the same clothes two days in a row, but I didn't want to go all the way back to the capsule hotel, so I raided his wardrobe, amazed by how many clothes he managed to bring with him for what was basically an eight date tour. Still, I found a pair of skinny jeans that fit me reasonably well, though it was clear I had far more of an arse than he did, and borrowed a plain black t-shirt. He dressed quickly, then took about twenty minutes to do his hair. It was all still so new to me that I actually found it adorable, the way he fussed with his hair wax and tried to get half his hair to stand on end, and the other half to lay flat across his forehead.

When we all gathered in the lobby, I noticed that Adie was already there - had we both just abandoned the capsule hotel to sleep in Radiohead's spare beds? Or perhaps Mariko had fetched him first on her way to round up the bands. Or...? I smiled as I watched their body language, trying to pick up any hints on how far he'd got with the ferocious record company lady, but I simply could not tell.

I was much less nervous the second night of the tour, as I knew that we could pull off the performance, and I was fairly confident that the polite Japanese audience would at least be nice to us. In fact, as we crawled into the tent and I found my way to my synth controls, I realised I was actually starting to enjoy it. The performance went seamlessly, even better than the first night, as Adie and I started to get the confidence to improvise a little, shifting arrangements and playing back and forth off one another, even before Thom appeared to shake us up.

And Radiohead were incandescent on their second night. No matter how many times I saw them - and I realised that this was now my fourth time on this tour, starting to ratchet up a gig count to equal anyone on the Loophole - the magic never failed. The setlists mutated from night to night, never the same twice, taking different paths through familiar forests. That night, feeling ever so slightly disloyal, I decided to watch Jonny, trying to pick up hints from the way he bent over his synthesisers. He had made good on his promise, and shown me some of his gear at soundcheck, but it was during the performance that he really seemed to come alive, teasing incredible sounds from his semi-homemade rig.

Thom had calmed down somewhat; he didn't quite need to attack me immediately after the set, as if he actually believed now that I would be around, later in the night and even the morning after, though I still couldn't quite believe that he wasn't going to kick me out at any moment. I didn't know if I was ever going to get used to it - not just the shiny newness of an early relationship, still being on each others' best behaviour, but the way that Thom would slip so casually between being Thom Yorke, International Rock Star, onstage - and silly, batshit, slightly insecure Furious when we were alone, constantly seeking approval and asking if I thought the gig went OK and whether I thought it was better or worse than the gig the night before. Thom Yorke could be insecure. This was mind-blowing to me. I thought that it wore off, eventually, that butterfly feeling before a gig, and the strange sinking feeling, several hours after the gig, when the euphoria of adrenaline had worn off, and you were picking your performance apart, wondering how you could do better for next time. But no, he had been doing this for fifteen years, and apparently still needed to ask, in the taxi on the way to the hotel, if his voice had sounded OK, and he had hit the high notes with the right amount of emotion.

I stared at him as we made our way through the slow traffic, back towards the hotel - just to pick up my suitcase, really, so that we could get an early start for Tokyo the next morning, from his hotel - when he asked me if his voice had sounded alright.

"You sounded perfect," I told him, massaging his fingers gently as I held his hand. "I would have thought you were absolutely inhuman, the way you sing, if you didn't manage to pack such utterly raw emotion into your voice."

"Yeah, but sometimes I worry it's a bit too raw. If I go to push it, and my voice cracks. I don't have the same range I had when I was 23. My voice has changed over the years." He frowned, peering out into the neon night.

"But that's what's beautiful about you, my love. It's not just the way that you hit and you hold those incredible notes. It's the way that sometimes, you break, because you're human, and it's that breaking, that hint of vulnerability which makes it even more beautiful, because you realise how fragile that beauty is."

"You said something like that on the forum once," he mused, taking my hand and raising it absent-mindedly to his mouth, rubbing my fingers back and forth across his lips. "About how you thought I was beautiful because I allowed myself to be vulnerable." A pause, as I blushed at the memory - would I have said such a thing if I'd known that the real Thom was reading it? "Do you still think I'm beautiful, now that you know me?"

"Thom, I think you're even more beautiful, now that I know you," I breathed all in a rush, before I could even stop to think.

His face lit up in a beatific smile as he nibbled on the ends of my fingers. "You shouldn't feed my ego. I'll become monstrous."

"I'll take that risk. I lived with Jack for ten years - you could never out-ego him."

Thom laughed a slightly mean cackle of superiority over his deposed rival, then paid the taxi driver as we pulled up outside my hotel. I wouldn't miss it, I decided, as Thom perched on the bed in order to give me enough room to even open my suitcase all the way. And yet, I couldn't help but feel a slight tug of emotion. It was the first place we'd finally had sex. Well, proper sex, whatever proper sex was supposed to be. But more importantly, it was the first place Thom had told me he loved me. I would remember this cramped coffin of a hotel room forever.

"I've told Mariko to cancel your hotel in Tokyo," Thom announced casually as I handed in the key and asked the concierge to call us another taxi. "You needn't worry about that, now that you're staying with me."

I eyed him carefully, slightly perturbed that he'd done this without actually consulting me. "What about Jonny? How are we going to keep lying to him?"

"I've asked Mariko to make sure I have a separate room. It's Ed and Coz's turn to have the suite, anyway. I imagine Adie will have an easier time ingratiating himself onto their sofa if they have a proper lounge this time, too." He smirked at my bandmate's ability to cadge comfortable places to stay - though seriously, I wondered if what he was doing was more honest than what I was doing.

"You think of everything," I told him, wondering why there was a slight prickle of unease going down the back of my neck. "How on earth am I ever going to be able to go back to Shoreditch, and warehouse living, after a week in posh Japanese hotels?"

Thom eyed me suspiciously. "You're not going back to Shoreditch. You're coming to Australia with me."

That took me aback, sharply. "Was that a question, or a statement?"

"Come on, you can't just go back to Kieran, if you're with me. You said this, between us, that this was, you know, _a thing_."

"I'm not going back to Kieran like that. But that is where I live."

"I don't like it. I don't think it's appropriate, you just going back to live with your ex boyfriend... That makes me really uncomfortable."

"He's not even my ex boyfriend! We slept together just once, and then I told him I loved you, and he was fine with it."

"When did you tell him?" Thom demanded jealousy. "You haven't spoken to him since you've been on tour... have you?"

Now I felt on the defensive, though I had nothing to feel guilty about. "I told him before I left. After I got back from Germany, I knew that I loved you."

At that, the worry on Thom's face broke, giving way to a relieved smile. "You loved me even then... after I was such a shit to you... God, I don't even deserve you."

"Did you love me, then?" I was almost afraid to know the answer.

"Helplessly," he confessed. "If only you knew the half of it." His lower lip quivered in the dim half-light as the taxi slid down neon-lit streets.  "If you love me, will you come to Australia with me? Please?"

"That's better," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "That was a question and not a command."

"I'm sorry, Lucy, it was always a request."

"No, I'm sorry. I'm just oversensitive I guess. It was the kind of thing that Jack used to do to me all the time. Just make these decisions for me and present them to me, fait accompli, like I had no choice in the matter."

"Hey." Thom took my hand firmly, tugging me towards him. "I'm not Jack. I'm not anything like Jack. Please remember that."

"You're right. And I'm sorry. It's not fair to be suspicious of you for things he used to do. You're so different in every way. You're so..." I paused and caught myself. I had been about to say _You're so perfect_ , but no one was perfect, were they? Not even Thom fucking Yorke.

"You will come, though?" The fear in his eyes that I might actually say no, it was exactly the kind of vulnerability that made him so beautiful.

"Yes."


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thom and Adie argue over ' _authenticity_ ' as their record industry contacts try to convince the band to make a move into pop remixes.

Jonny eyed me strangely at breakfast the next morning, upon discovering that I had stayed in their suite for a second night running, but fortunately he was far too polite to say anything directly. I thought it shone all over our faces, every time Thom and I were together, how in love we were, how we couldn't stop smiling at one another, gazing into one another's eyes, finding excuse after excuse for our hands to brush together at the breakfast table. He would catch my eye and the subtle smirk as he licked his lips would remind me of the teasing way he'd snaked his tongue up the inside of my thigh the previous night, and both of us would start to giggle and blush. I saw his lips and thought only of kissing him, I saw his hips and thought only of how they felt pumping between my thighs. 

I barely heard Jonny as he tried to tell me all about the Shinkansen train and the engineering feats behind it because Thom and I were too busy making eyes at one another. But when Jonny finally gave up, sighed long-sufferingly and stuck his elegant nose into a new comic book, I suddenly realised how rude we were being. I was being the horrible new girlfriend, coming between a bloke and his best friend. Peeling myself away from Thom, I went through back into our room and started mucking about with the packing, and sure enough, he and Jonny soon started up their usual chatter.

The gear was already en route by slower ground transport, but we were rounded up by the businesslike Mariko and driven in a convoy of taxis to the train station. I was actually quite excited by the idea of riding on the legendary Bullet Train, as, despite all my hopes that playing in Japan would be an amazing cultural experience, all I'd really seen were the backstage of the venue, a couple of hotel room and some very expensive shops that could just as easily been New York or Paris.

Sorting out the seating was fraught, though. We had all actually been given assigned seat reservations, in the same carriage for once, unlike the airplane. I had asked for a window seat, and been given one - though Thom had been given the window on the opposite side of the train from me. "Come and sit by me," he urged, but before he could reply, Adie flopped down next to me.

"So I finally get to talk to my bandmate for the first time all tour," he teased, stowing his carry-on bag in the overhead rack then pulling out his laptop. "You swanned off late night, leaving me to pack up all the gear myself, and I have not forgiven you," he sulked, though a few minutes later, he had completely forgotten that in his excitement. "Oh! I didn't tell you. When I went to collect our CDs from the merch stall, they gave me back just one crate, when I know that we brought two. So I said, where's our other case? And they said - sold 'em all. So we have sold an entire case - that's four boxes, you know - of CDs, just in the first two nights. Isn't that amazing?"

"Oh my god. That's incredible. Steve is going to be well pleased when he hears that."

"Well, no he's not," Adie laughed. "Not when he sees the cheque they wrote - it's all in fucking Yen. I don't know how he's going to cash it."

"If anyone can figure out how to cash a cheque in Yen, it would be Steve. He could probably do it automatically on the internet, with all his hi-tech magic."

"Yeah, better him than me," Adie muttered, then fired up his laptop. "Hang on, I want to play you what I did with that new stuff you wrote the other night."

Thom looked across at us, sourly, when he realised that Adie planned on monopolising me for the journey, then caught one of the train attendants coming through the carriage offering international newspapers and took a Guardian. The rest of his bandmates had bagged a table a few rows up and had sat down and started to deal a hand of Bridge.

"They're absolute card sharks," Adie grumbled. "Do not trust that O'Brien at all - he and Coz fleeced me at poker the other night."

Thom cackled and turned over, pulling his coat around him and trying to get comfortable in his seat. The carriage door opened and a tiny old lady came through, dragging a suitcase behind her. Spotting the free seat by Thom, she made a beeline for it, but the moment she caught sight of his face, she physically recoiled, making a horrified face and spitting out a stream of Japanese under her breath as she moved swiftly on, dragging her suitcase quickly up the aisle away from us.

Thom rolled over again the other way, and stared after her, offence and puzzlement mixed on his face. "What did I do? What the fuck was she saying?"

Mariko's face appeared above the seat backs ahead of us, as she struggled to contain her mirth. "I do apologise."

"What did she say?" Thom demanded. "She looked at me like I was the devil!"

"Yes, pretty much," Mariko explained. "Unfortunately, it's still quite common among older people here. The prejudice against Europeans. It's because, well..." She lowered her voice carefully. "They think you smell. On account of all the dairy products you eat."

"But I'm a vegan!" Thom protested in a howl of outrage, seeming to forget the butter and cheese he snuck every now and then. "I hardly stink of milk!"

"Well, most prejudices are irrational," Mariko tried to soothe, though I could see she found it much funnier than he did.

Adie howled with laughter and slapped his thigh. "You are kidding me! You mean they're racist against white people here? I think I love this country more and more."

"It's mostly older people, the more conservative types," Mariko tried to hedge, but Thom was in huff now, shaking out his Guardian and hiding behind the newspaper. "I've nothing against gaijin," she insisted. "In fact, when this assignment is over, I'm transferring to the LA office, to go and work in America." She said this with a very pointed look at Adie.

"LA, huh? I've never been to California. I've always wanted to go," Adie responded, beaming up at her, the new tracks on the laptop completely forgotten. Oh come on, this wasn't fair, if I was going to have to watch the two of them flirting while my own boyfriend was sulking behind an angry front page about the Iraq Occupation on the other side the train.

"Well, actually..." Mariko ventured, slipping out from her own seat and dropping neatly into the empty seat by Thom. "I kind of wanted to talk to you about that."

Now this I had to hear. Was Mariko really going to swoop down and carry Adie off to California like Thom was carting me off to Australia? Touring really did do wonders for a musician's sex life, didn't it?

"I'm going to LA to work on a new project. We're launching a new artist, and I'll be overseeing her entire A&R. She's just a kid, with a great voice, but no real image. My vision is that we should restyle her for the urban pop market, which is our biggest moneyspinner in the States."

Now Thom was paying attention again, glowering at the woman sitting beside him. Adie, however, was scratching his peach-fuzz stubble. "How much money we talking?"

"EMI has a lot of confidence in this artist. We've got a very generous budget," Mariko hedged. "But what we really need is to get producers behind her with a real buzz. Get the right kind of flavour with the remixes. Bring a level of authenticity to her image. Which is, obviously, why my very first thought was that I should be talking to you." She actually batted her eyelashes at him. Christ, she was sharp, I thought. And here I had thought she was flirting with Adie because she liked him.

Adie smiled back slowly. For a moment, I panicked, the mother hen instinct of wanting to protect the boy I thought of as my kid brother, but he was perfectly astute at _this_ game. "How much of a budget? Name figures. Ballpark."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Adie was learning to play like a pro, Americanisms and all.

Mariko didn't even blink. "Thirty thousand up front. But you'd get points on the album, though obviously that's negotiable."

"Thirty thousand," Adie repeated, though he turned towards me, so that Mariko couldn't see the expression of surprise on his face. We exchanged glances quickly, nervously. Was the offer for both of us? That would be fifteen thousand each. Dollars or Pounds? Christ, that was more than a year's rent for either of us. Or the deposit on buying a flat. My own house... an actual home where I didn't have to be beholden to Jack or Kieran or Thom or anyone? And points... I remembered vaguely how points worked - if the album sold well, they could quickly add up to hundreds of thousands of pounds.

"Don't do it, it's not enough," growled Thom from across the aisle.

"What?" snapped Adie, glaring back at him.

"She's a cool-hunter. She's trying to buy your _authenticity_. Because right now, although you might be the hottest thing on the UK club scene, your credibility is all you have. And she's desperate to monetise that. But if you sell your cred, you're fucked. You've destroyed your biggest asset. You don't get it back. It's bullshit, don't do it." Thom was absolutely bristling, his eyes narrowed and his hair all standing on end like a small woodland creature.

"Authenticity?" Adie demanded.

"She wants your glamour of urban cool for some pampered teenager they've plucked off a television talent show. It's a racket, Adie, don't fall for it."

" _Urban cool_ ," Adie repeated, his face growing coldly furious. "Look, Yorke. Why don't you tell me. What did you buy with the profits of your first single?"

Thom's face darkened. Creep had gone top ten in several countries. He'd made enough money off that first single that he would probably never had to work again in his life if he didn't want to. "I bought my house, alright?"

"I bought my grandmother an electric wheelchair. Because we lost the fucking NHS postcode lottery and you can't even get a dodgy old fashioned one in Peckham without a 2-year waiting list. So don't you fucking lecture me on what is quite _enough_ money and what isn't." I had never seen the normally affable Adie quite so wound up.

"I said it's not enough because it's a fucking gamble, Adie. You're right, I'm middle class and you're not. But that means that your reputation is all you have. If you do that album and it bombs - and most pop albums bomb, remember that - then you have sold your birthright for a bowl of pottage. Is thirty thousand quid really worth it? Could you live on thirty thousand quid for the rest of your life? Because they want to buy your reputation and slap your name on it. And then you take the blame if it bombs. Not them. They've got a thousand other kids just lined up to jump for the brass ring."

"It's not going to bomb if me and Lucy have a thing to do with it. I know people like you, Yorke, how you fetishise the underground, and talk about shit like cred, because you think it's fucking _cool_ , sweating in dirty clubs in Brixton because you get to go home afterwards to your fucken mansions. You come down for one night, and you swan around in our clubs, slumming it, and you think it's all glamour and urban cool, you know, being poor. Well, the fuck it is. I don't give a shit about authenticity. I give a shit about getting paid and getting the fuck out. So yeah, Mariko, we're interested. Get us a flight to LA, all expenses paid - on your tab, mind you - and we'll check out this chick you've signed, and we'll see what we can work out. Right, Lucy?" 

He turned to me for backup, but I felt completely torn. I could see both sides. I knew Adie, I knew where he'd come from, and how hard he had worked to get everything he had accomplished. How badly he wanted success, as a kind of _fuck you_ to a world that didn't want him or his kind. But I could also see where Thom was coming from. Thom was like Jack in that respect - it was easy for him to say _fuck you_ to the corrosive power of big money because he had so much less to risk. And Thom's gamble had paid off, though Jack's had failed. Though failure didn't matter to Jack, because he always had his family's wealth to fall back on. But that was the point - Thom thought Adie had something to lose, when as far as Adie was concerned, he could hardly eat _urban cool_. And yet, I hated to see them fight, these two men whose lives had become so intimately tied up with mine. It was like watching my lover fight with my family - Hell, Adie pretty much _was_ family now. How on earth could I ever take sides?

"Look, Mariko, let's you and I switch seats," I offered. "I'm no good with the business side. You and Adie, you hash out a deal. I trust Adie, I trust him to make the best decision for us." And with that, I stood up, and surrendered my window seat, and moved over to sit next to my sulking boyfriend, as Mariko and Adie smiled, tight-lipped, at one another, like the gamblers they were.

"You've making the fucking mistake of your life," Thom grumbled, under his breath, flipping up his newspaper and shielding his face with it so that I was faced with the choice of stopping the conversation or carrying on the argument with the printed face of Tony Blair, arguing about Iraq in the House of Commons.

"If it is, it's our mistake to make, isn't it?" I replied. A grunt in response. "Or is that it? That you really want to claim responsibility for us, and for The Loophole. And it reflects badly on you, if one of your hip, urban, underground remixers hits the bigtime and signs with EMI and goes to LA?"

Lowering the newspaper slowly, Thom turned on me with a look of withering contempt. But as I met his eyes and stared him down, the look of fury slowly relented. "Maybe." Shaking his head slowly, he gazed at me. "Alright, probably definitely. Christ, you are going to keep me honest, aren't you? You know me so well? Already?" There was a bruised kind of fear in his eyes, but also love lurking underneath. He wanted to be _known_ that well, like he'd once told me he needed to be kept in line and kept from going feral without a woman in his life.

"Thom..." Glancing across the train to make sure that Adie and Mariko were still engrossed in their conversation, I slipped my hand gently under his newspaper and gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze. "You said you would always support me, because you wanted me to be happy."

"I did indeed. And I will." Letting go of one corner of the newspaper, he let it fall against the window as he reached down to pat my hand gently with his own. And then I smiled mischievously, and moved my hand carefully up towards his crotch, feeling with my fingers until they rested on the mound of his genitals. He blinked, surprised, and his hand twitched towards mine, but he did not remove it.

"I mean, maybe there is only room for one rock star in this relationship. And it isn't me. But I'd really rather be a producer and a songwriter anyway, to be honest. This pop star of Mariko's could be just the beginning." I moved my hand carefully up and down, feeling his cock stiffen beneath me. Thom, too, stiffened, conflicting emotions flickering across his face, as desire fought with fear. There were people all around us, only a few feet away in the close compartment of the train, but they were too wrapped in their own little worlds to pay two gaijin much attention.

"Oh yeah?" He moved his newspaper, so that Tony Blair's shouting face shielded his lap from the rest of the carriage as I started to unzip his fly. Nibbling nervously at his lips, he seemed both intrigued and terrified by what I was doing, even as he pushed his hips towards my hand. "Beginning of what?"

"The sky's the limit, isn't it? To be honest, it's always been my dream to write and produce a track for someone, like... Madonna," I confessed, pulling his swollen cock out of his pants and wrapping my hand firmly around it. Raising my head slightly, I glanced across the train to see that Adie and Mariko were now both deeply engrossed in his laptop, his headphones on her ears as he hovered over her. In front of us, his bandmates were far too deeply engaged in the tension of their card game to even notice what we were doing.

"Really?" His voice became low and breathy as I started to stroke, his foreskin slipping back and forth under my fingers. "So when you go to pick up your Grammy for producing Madonna, are you going to take me along as your date, and introduce us? Will _I_ be cool enough for you, then?" His defensive spikiness seemed to recede a bit as he joked with me, even as a slight fear still lurked sullenly in his eyes.

"Yeah, I quite fancy having a pretty rock star as arm candy when I win my first, second, third... Grammy..." I teased, smiling at him suggestively and licking my lips. That was it, he was lost, his bad temper forgotten as he laid his head back against the seat in ecstasy, watching me from slitted eyes as I stroked his cock firmly. The two of us went silent, his breaths covered by the noise of the train as we went through a tunnel.

"Careful, I'm going to..." he whispered as I sped up my pace, and I moved my fingers out of the way just in time as his body spasmed and he spurted a few squirts of milky white cum straight into the face of his hated Tony B.Liar. "Fuck, you are filthy," he sighed in something like admiration as his face grew slightly soppy. "How can I ever be enough for you?"

"Oh come on, I could hardly call myself a Public School girl if I didn't know how to give a discreet handjob on a train." I teased as he tried to do his trousers back up with one hand, then carefully folded the Guardian so as to contain the mess.

"Christ, when I get you to the hotel in Tokyo, I am going to give you such a good seeing to," he threatened, even as he threw one arm around me and gave me a quick squeeze before pulling away from propriety's sake. I wanted so badly to just throw caution to the wind and wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head against his chest, but I didn't dare with Adie sitting so close by. But instead, I sat by him, just our elbows and our knees brushing against one another as we sat, watching the Japanese countryside slide by outside, as Thom carefully pointed out landmarks.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy is trying to enjoy her very first visit to Japan, but Thom is being so cynical about record industry stuff.
> 
> When he asks her to follow Radiohead out to Australia on tour, she is forced to choose between her lover, and the exciting / terrifying new deal they might be signing.
> 
> But can they keep their affair secret for much longer?

Unfortunately, we barely had time for a quickie after we checked into our Tokyo hotel, as EMI Japan had laid on a massive party for Radiohead in a restaurant at the top of one of the shining spires of the city centre. Thom had to schmooze and do the whole meet and greet thing, talking nicely to various important people at the record company. Adie, however, used the opportunity to meet as many record executives as he possibly could, and hungrily pressed advance copies of the Axiom N Atom album into their hands, even as Thom rolled his eyes and sighed huffily at that hunger.

Finally, as dinner broke up and we moved through into a reserved bar area, he pulled me aside, out onto a small, enclosed private balcony. Out of sight, he risked putting his arm around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder as we stared together out the window at the panorama of the bay, a great gulf of blackness lit by the shining christmas tree lights of Tokyo. There was a floating island of filigree fantasy-buildings, confections of neon reflected in the water like the glowing undersea creatures of Thom's fantasies, and a massive bridge that spanned the gulf, all lit up the colours of the rainbow.

But as I marvelled at the beauty, Thom scowled. "The waste. It's shocking, really," he muttered. "That this is the country that came up with the Kyoto Protocol, and yet they are so profligate with energy consumption and light pollution."

"It's beautiful, though, don't you think? The light... The colours... It's like a rainbow. Beautiful."

"Beautiful like a rainbow in an oil slick," he grumbled.

"Like your poisonous jellyfish, lovely but also dangerous and deadly."

"It's our fault for fucking with the jellyfish, though. We're the interlopers, we're invading their home, driving them into new habitats by screwing up the oceans with global warming. I have sympathy for the damn jellyfish when I see opulent displays like this, though." It was the old Thom talking again, the Furious I knew and loved, even as he frustrated and confounded me.

"You see opulence, I see beauty and delight and wonder. The way those buildings look like they're just floating on water. Those elaborate neon displays, and the way they warp and bend in the reflections, like some kind of modern art."

"It's not modern art, they're corporate logos," Thom sighed, exasperated. "You can't read them because they're all in Japanese, but they're all banks and vast global corporations that own half of fucking Asia. Like, even here, in this beautiful place halfway round the world, we can't even get away from corporate branding. Look, that one over there. It's Nomura Bank. And that's Citicorp. Even here, we can't get away from the tentacles of Corporate America."

I turned around to face him, slipping my arms around his waist and putting my hands up his back, feeling for the reassuring solidity of his flesh, strong and surprisingly solid, despite his frail appearance. "Sometimes I think, you have to take beauty where you find it, even in the midst of things you find conceptually ugly."

He smiled wryly, and rubbed his nose against mine, squeezing me gently. "I used to think that, the first couple of times I saw it. And then I realised that was a kind of naiveté, that I shouldn't be trying to see the hidden beauty, I should be getting fucking angry about it."

"Anger is only useful if it accomplishes something, babe. Not if you let it eat you up." I paused to let it sink in, resting my head against his shoulder, feeling the unexpected softness of the bare skin at the nape of his neck against my cheek. "And maybe you think I am naive, but it is my first time here, and I'm still astonished by the beauty."

"I'm sorry. I keep forgetting this is your first time. I just feel like I've known you forever, that you've always been here, listening to me." He pulled me closer, his arms tight around me. "It's funny to think, this is probably the last time I will have to do this."

"What, eat dinner in an opulent Japanese restaurant? Go to Tokyo? Tour?" For a horrible moment, I thought perhaps he meant the last time he would hold me close like this, but I stuffed that fear back down my own throat.

"Deal with major label record company people."

"Go on. You'll renew your record contract. They'll offer you some multimillion pound deal you can't refuse."

"They won't, you know. They think we can't refuse, but we can. It's not about the money, though that's what they seem to think it is, throw more money at it and the problems go away. The more I talk to people at EMI, I realise how much has changed. Everyone we knew, that we dealt with, they're all gone. All replaced with smart little bean-counters and deal-drivers like your friend Mariko."

"I don't know why you dislike Mariko so much. She's efficient. She gets things done." Raising my head, I loosened my arms slightly, but did not pull away.

"But at what cost?" He turned his face towards me, his blue eyes clouded. "This is what I keep trying to tell you, but you won't listen. Some things really are worth more than money. The deals they keep offering us, they're more and more money, but they give us less and less control. The artistic decisions, they want to take them out of our hands, and put them in the hands of people like Mariko. A&R as done by the accounting department. Watch out for that woman."

"I don't know what's got into you tonight." I reached up and fussed with his hair like a mother hen, carefully moving the longer strands about so they covered the receded hairline by his temple. "Are you in a bad mood, do you want to go back to the hotel?"

"Look, I'm just trying to warn you. I don't know much Japanese, just a handful of phrases I've picked up over the years. But I know enough to have realised, that she is not always completely honest when she's translating."

"Completely honest, or completely accurate? I'm surprised she can do it that fast, to be honest. And you know what the Japanese are like, how concerned they are with politeness and formality. She's probably sanding off mine and Adie's rough, ' _urban_ ' edges so we don't offend anyone. I'm sure she's not doing it for any malevolent reasons."

"I hope you're right." Thom plucked my hand from his hair and nuzzled it against his mouth, rubbing my fingers back and forth across the soft beard on his chin. "It's just so strange, to see you - well, to see Adie - fighting so hard to get into bed with EMI, when we're fighting so hard to get out."

"If you want to leave, Thom, leave. Don't try to talk us out of something you've enjoyed the privileges of for so long. Now let's get out of here. Come on. Make your excuses. Let's go. I have a good seeing to that you promised to give me."

 

\-----

 

I wondered if it would ever quite lose its thrill, the sheer rush of excitement, watching Thom's face glow with exertion as he laboured above me. The pale moon of his face hovering over me as he raised himself up on his elbows to plunge into me from a deeper angle. It still seemed amazing to me that I got to touch him, got to kiss him and snog him and drag him into bed, pulling his clothes off as I nibbled at the bony ridges of his ribs. Just when I thought I was exhausted, and I wanted no more sex again, ever, all he would have to do would be look at me and smile and just raise one eyebrow in a suggestive leer, and I would have to wrap my arms and legs around him and pull him inside me again. Honestly, I had probably had more sex in the past week than I had had in the entire year preceding it. We couldn't go on at this pace. Could we?

However, the next morning, I insisted that we do a bit of sight-seeing in Tokyo, instead of just spending the entire day in our hotel room, fucking. It was my first time - maybe my only time - in this amazing, beautiful and confusing city. I wanted to see it, to smell it, to really experience it, as a tourist, as a stranger in a strange land. We joined some tourist's tour that Mariko arranged, which swept us through the streets on what looked like a retired London double decker bus, then visited a temple, and wandered around a few shrines. Thom seemed caught, between wanting to learn about the rituals and philosophy of Buddhism, and just stumbling around like a tourist, gawking at the opulent art and impressive displays. 

The city was wreathed in blossom - the famous cherry trees giving everything a soft, pink, blooming atmosphere, the whole world waking up from the barrenness of winter to an explosion of colour and beauty and soft scent. We ended up in a park by an Imperial Palace, staring over the blossom at the skyscrapers creeping steadily towards us as Mariko tutted and glanced pointedly at her watch. I didn't want to leave the palace park and those astonishing views, but we barely had time to rush back to the hotel to gather our things before taking the train out to Chiba for soundcheck

As Thom went onstage, I finally got the chance to corner Adie and pump him for information on the deal that Mariko was offering. He was quite pleased with himself, as he had wrangled another few thousand pounds of advance to buy new equipment, and had established that we would keep the songwriting publishing on any tracks we wrote for the starlet, as well as the points on the album. Although he was elated at his success at bargaining, I was starting to worry. Perhaps Thom's paranoia was rubbing off on me - but there was something I couldn't help but notice he had omitted to ask.

"Do you have any idea what this girl even sounds like?" I asked.

He shrugged breezily. "It doesn't actually really matter. The production is the thing, and the packaging. And Mariko really knows her shit. But yeah, since you ask, Mariko played me a couple of her demo tapes, and yeah, the girl has some pipes on her. She can sing, alright. But Lucy, mate, I am going to be able to buy my own fucking Neuman! And some decent compressors, so no matter whether she can sing or not, I will make her sound good."

"How do know if her voice will suit our material?"

"You're a good songwriter, you can write stuff to suit her voice, surely." I frowned, but he grinned. "You'll hear her soon enough. Mariko's flying us to LA in 3 days, as soon as the Radiohead tour is over."

"In 3 days? I... I can't," I stuttered.

"Why on earth not? It's not like you got anywhere else to be."

"I do, actually."

"Whatever it is, cancel it. We have thirty thousand pounds riding on this. Thirty five thousand pounds now, including our gear budget, thanks to my business acumen," he hissed. He really was picking up the language of the wheelers and dealers now - acumen was not a word I ever would have heard the scruffy Peckham teenager use. The Adie I had known was changing, and fast.

"I can't. I promised I would go on to Australia." Thom was already dead set against the deal with Mariko - if I blew out his tour for it, he would never forgive me.

"Australia?" asked Adie, scratching his head in confusion. "Who the hell do you know in Australia?" But then he followed my eyes as I glanced, almost reflexively across to Thom, who caught my eye, licked his lips, then made a slightly obscene gesture with his tongue as he raised his eyebrows. "You are fucking kidding me."

"I'm going to Australia," I repeated doggedly.

"With Radiohead. With him." Adie stood up, staring at me, taking in the pair of men's jeans I was wearing, the graffitied T-shirt that Thom had been wearing on New Year's Eve. "Are you fucking him, Luce?"

"That's none of your business." I tried to keep my voice low and even, even as I felt myself panicking inside. It had not been supposed to come out like this. Not before the end of the tour, at least.

"You're fucking Thom Yorke? Come on, Luce, look me in the eye and tell me that you are not fucking him. Please." His voice sounded desperate, even as I tried not to meet his gaze.

"Please keep your voice down. The rest of his band doesn't know." It wasn't until it was out of my mouth that I realised it was as good as a confession.

"Of course they don't. Because they would tell his fucking girlfriend." He paused, as I said nothing. "You haven't forgotten that he has a girlfriend, have you?"

"Not any more, he doesn't," I insisted, though I couldn't help the note of triumph creeping into my voice. "Or rather, he does, and it's me."

"Lucy, you fucking idiot." Adie clutched his hands to his skull, pulling at his hair,  then shook his head despondently and walked off, throwing his hands in the air and shaking them as if he were trying to rid himself physically of the thought. I watched him walk away, but made no motion to stop him, sitting rooted to my seat as if paralysed. This was bad. No, this wasn't that bad, it would be fine, just give him a chance to calm down, he will get over it. I stared straight ahead, just watching my boyfriend, standing at the mic, his hands clasped over his head as he sang his level-check into the mic. Whatever happened, it was worth it. Just to see Thom smile, just to watch the muscles shifting under his shirt, just to know that his body was mine.

Adie had not returned by the time Radiohead finished soundchecking. I had to set up the tent myself, hoping that he would at least find his way back before the doors opened. I plugged everything in - I still knew the password on his laptop at least - and tried to do as much of a soundcheck as I could. The flap of the tent opened and my heart leapt, hoping that Adie had relented and come back, but it was only Thom.

"Do you need help?"

"Yeah. Do you think you can press play on the laptop, and then play a little bit on the drumpads as I play the keyboard? Yeah, like that. Thanks."

"Ooh, look at me, I'm a world famous DJ/Producer," Thom laughed, mucking about with the filters on the mixing board for a bit.

"Don't fuck with that," I warned. "Adie will kill you."

"Where is Adie anyway?"

"No idea. I thought he'd be back by now, but I think he's really angry."

"What? Why? This is really unlike him, especially if he's trying to impress EMI."

"He, well, put two and two together, and figured out about me and you."

"Oh." Thom pulled a guilty face, then shrugged. "Well, he was bound to find out sooner or later, wasn't he?"

"I would have preferred it was later... like after we signed the deal with Mariko, but..." I shrugged helplessly, but Thom merely smiled smugly, with an _I Told You So_ expression on his face.

"Do you honestly think he would sign without you?"

"I don't know. Please don't even suggest it. Adie and I are a team."

Thom stared at me reproachfully. "How'd he find out, anyway?"

"He wanted me to fly with him to LA after the last show in Tokyo. I told him that I was going on to Australia with you instead. So don't you ever go thinking that I don't love you, because I may have chosen you over the most important deal in my life."

"If you don't sign, it's not the worst thing in the world. I can still introduce you to people, get you signed in your own right..." he offered, but I cut him off.

"Thom, don't."

I went back to our dressing room, hoping he had turned up, but Adie was still nowhere to be seen. I checked the backstage bar, but he wasn't there, then made my way out to the front of house, searching through the rapidly filling hall. I checked the bars at the back, but he wasn't there either. I walked out the front doors, and scanned the crowds as they climbed the steps to the hall, then gave up and walked round to the backstage door. No, he had not come in that way, he had not come back, no one had seen him. I looked for Thom, but he was busy with a pair of journalists, so I trudged back to the dressing room and tried to quell the rising panic with an odd Japanese beer.

Finally, five minutes before we were due to go on, Adie reappeared somewhat sheepishly at the backstage door, no explanation given, and none even asked. We made our way to the stage, slipped in through the back of the tent and started the familiar countdown to the show.

It was an odd, strained performance. I hated being trapped in that tiny, enclosed space, when Adie was barely speaking to me, except for the very barest of musical directions. We had played the set so many times now, we didn't even need to communicate, but still, it bothered me, this heavy silence from him, which only deepened when Thom squeezed his way into the tent. The look Adie shot him was pure anger, barely disguised contempt. How different from that look of hero worship that Adie had given Thom when they'd first met, at that nightclub in Croydon. Could love turn to hate that easily?

But when Thom turned to me, and sung his heart out, his eyes brimming with love and adoration as he pronounced the words, his voice soaring up the octave, I regretted nothing. How could Adie deny us this? Could he not see how in love we were? Could he not see how perfectly Thom and I blended together, whether it was our bodies or our voices? But Adie turned away, burying his nose in his laptop so that he didn't have to even look at us.

Backstage was tense. Adie still wasn't even speaking to me, so I just gave up on him, grabbed another beer and made my way to the wings to watch Radiohead play. A few minutes later, Mariko emerged, smiled and nodded at me, then lent against the wall next to me, though she did not speak. Adie appeared, saw Mariko and made a beeline for her, but stopped short when he saw me next to her. For a moment, he just stood there, confused, then he sloped slowly to her side, keeping her body between me and him as he bent down to whisper in her ear. He was drunk, I could smell the alcohol on his breath - I had suspected he might have been pissed when he came back to the tent for our gig, but now I was certain, even as he bent over Mariko, hovering over her. And then, in some odd pantomime that I couldn't help but feel was directed at me, I saw him extend one of his arms and wrap it gently around her shoulder. Mariko bristled slightly, but did not attempt to move it, so he slid it lower, around her waist. Was this for my benefit? Was I supposed to care? Was this supposed to make me jealous? Or was he being a total fucking fool - supposing me to be jeopardising our career by fucking Thom, was he going to make a pass at the one woman who could sign us to a major label production deal?

Adie moved closer, nuzzled his nose against her ear as he whispered something else to her - something dirty, I surmised from the look of disapproval flickering across Mariko's face. And then he made his play. Sliding his hand up, across her stomach, he cupped her breast very carefully in his hand and squeezed, gently, feeling with thumb and forefinger for her nipple.

Mariko flinched. I saw it in her face, the distinct curl of revulsion about her mouth, and for a second, her hand twitched, as if to remove him from her body, but then something else flashed across her face that I couldn't read. She smiled haughtily, the curl of disgust turning to a curl of triumph. And just as quickly, she composed her face, and made it a businesslike mask as she politely shrugged him off by taking his hand in her own and moving it down. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was just surprised by Adie's interest, or perhaps she was taken aback by such a public display of affection. But the businesslike way with which she suffered his embrace did not speak of passion, it spoke of someone giving just enough to get what they wanted out of a situation, and no more. Thom's misgivings echoed in my head. What if she was the kind of wheeler-dealer that really would do this? That if sex was what it took to clinch the deal with the trendy new producer, then sex was what she would do?

But as Adie pulled away, a look of absolute besotted lust on his face, I heard Mariko distinctly. "Later. I'm working right now. I'll see you at the hotel later, I'm sure we can work something out."

Adie nodded, then turned to me, shooting me one last look of triumph, then stalked off backstage, leaving me feeling both annoyed with him, but also horribly afraid for him.

 

\-----

 

We didn't talk about it again. Adie disappeared, before Radiohead even left the stage. But Thom and I, we got caught on our way out of the theatre. Japanese fans, jesus christ, they were polite, the way they lined up in rows outside the theatre instead of squealing and pushing, but still, they were demanding in their own way. Some had gifts for Thom, which he accepted politely, others had compliments or questions in halting English. And it did warm my heart to see the patience with which he talked to everyone, even if just for a bit, signed as many autographs as tickets were proffered, and repeatedly thanked everyone. That could have been me, only a few months ago.

Did it bother me that no one recognised or approached me? Not really, no. To be honest, I didn't really like that aspect of being in a band. Obviously not the being complimented by fans bit - no, that bit was brilliant and wonderful and it made it all worthwhile, to know that you really had created something that someone loved. But the endless parade of having to meet and interact with strangers, I found it exhausting, no matter how polite they were. Yet still, being _ignored_ , that bothered me. The hostile stares I got from some of the girls. They way the boys would ignore me, sometimes even turning their backs on me in their quest to get close to Thom. It was like the ICA all over again, and I hated it. I didn't begrudge Thom his fans - that I would never ever do. But I did begrudge the way that they treated me, like I was not even there.

 

\-----

 

The second night in Chiba should have been a triumph. It was the last night of a successful tour, as we'd pulled off four gigs in massive stadiums - not bad for a little British band that had barely existed six months before. And we'd sold out our entire stock of merchandise - albums and singles were all gone, and we wished we'd had t-shirts printed. Not only that, but we were potentially walking away with a major label deal.

So why was Adie so bad-tempered and sulky at the gig, barely speaking to me before the show, and only acknowledging me with the barest of grunts during the performance? Not that the audience noticed. The music certainly didn't suffer - if anything the slight edge of aggression and annoyance we felt towards each other manifested itself in an edgy new tension in the music which only served to make it better. Whatever was going on between Adie and I in our personal lives, creatively we sparked off one another. We were a team, like one music-making brain with four arms and two heads. Playing live together was getting easier and easier each time we did it, as we learned to anticipate each others' moves. Not, I thought to myself awkwardly and yet compulsively, unlike the way that sex with Thom got better each time we did it, as we grew more comfortable and relaxed with each other.

But the next morning was almost unbearably, as we all split up at the airport to go our separate ways. Mariko came with us to the airport, and delivered us to our check-in, Adie following behind her like an admonished puppy, though their body language seemed strained, strange, not at all the attitude of lovers.

"We'll see you in LA in a week," she insisted, pressing a new itinerary and a new set of airplane tickets into my hand. "Come to the Capitol Records building and ask for me - I don't have new business cards, but I'll email and let you know as soon as I have an American cellphone."

"Right. LA in a week," I agreed, trying to catch Adie's eye, but he was wearing his dark sunglasses, his lips set in an aggressive pout.

Coz and Ed, however, rated warm, manly bearhugs, as Adie grinned widely and clapped them heartily on the back. "You can camp on my sofa any time," Ed laughed, ruffling Adie's hair affectionately. There was just something about him that even men seemed to respond to, like he was kid brother to the world.

"Come out to Oxford some time and stay with us," Coz insisted, reaching up to hug Adie. "I'll show you my record collection. And my bassbins."

"Aw, mate, that would be sick," Adie enthused, wrapping the smaller man in a hug. 

I felt so sick at heart, thinking I was not involved in that glow of warmth any more. Oh, fuck it. Scrapping whatever pride I had, I pushed forward as their goodbyes broke up, and placed myself directly in Adie's way. "Do I not rate a hug goodbye?" I asked.

Adie stopped, pushed his sunglasses up onto his head as he looked down at me, then rolled his eyes. For a moment, I thought he was actually going to walk away without so much as a wave, but then he seemed to change his mind, sighed deeply, and bent down to hug me, crushing me against his chest for the briefest of moments.

"Remember, Adie," I told him softly in his ear. "You and me, we're a team. No matter what happens, we're a team."

He pulled away and looked at me oddly, as if he didn't quite believe it. "You could try acting a little more like it sometimes."

"That's not fair," I said quietly, looking up at him gravely.

"It is what it is," he shrugged, then turned and walked off, following in the direction Mariko had gone towards the check-in desk. For a horrible moment, I fought conflicting emotions, fighting the urge to go running after him, to catch at his arms, turn him around to face me and make him stay and fight it out. But I felt Thom's hand softly on the small of my back.

"Let him go," Thom whispered. "Give him time, he'll get over it."

I felt like crying, but instead I turned to Thom and rested my head for a moment on his shoulder, trying to draw strength from his compact body. As his bandmates surged up ahead to claim the next free check-in desk, I risked a quick kiss and let him rearrange my hair affectionately. "I hope you're right."


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lucy logs back onto The Loophole Forum, she finds herself torn in two, trying to reconcile fandom-Thom with boyfriend-Thom.
> 
> And can she repair her broken friendship with Adie?

Australia. Another hellish flight. Another bout of ferocious jetlag, though this was not so much the disorientation of expecting it to be day when it was still night, as the disorientation of two days somehow disappearing in transport, trains, airport waiting lounges, minibuses, silent whooshing trams that carried us from Terminal A to Terminal B. Business Class flights, comfortable seats that folded down to something approaching beds. Trying to make it not look completely obvious that Thom and I were together, though no one quite was quite rude enough to ask why I was coming on the next leg of the tour with them. The awkward looks. The awkward blank faces of people trying not to look when we were together. The ways our bodies always betrayed us, always gave us away, orienting towards each other like iron filings to a magnet, even as we tried not to touch. Passport control. Customs. Nothing to declare. Everything to declare but never quite finding the words to do so. Wanting to be alone, not surrounded by this pack of Englishmen. Wanting to be with Thom, wanting to just put my arms around his waist and rest my head against his chest, listening to his thumping heartbeat. My entire day, my entire itinerary planned into segments and journeys and destinations, even as I had no clue where we were going or what we were doing. The shock of leaving Japan in full-on spring-time, and arriving in Sydney in the brisk chill of autumn. Another hotel, perfunctory sex, sleep.

I had caught a cold. Of all the miserable but completely expected things, breathing recycled air on planes, crammed in with strangers in crowded rooms, my body in shock from whipping around the globe at speed. Somehow I forced myself out to a chemist to buy some nasty medicine called Mersyndol from a woman with a harsh Aussie accent, then I crawled back to the hotel room and back to bed. I didn't know what was in those tablets, and I didn't really care, but it did at least make the world go away. Thom was sweet, making a fuss over me like a doting grandmother, fetching me blankets, tea, trying to tuck me in when all I wanted was to curl up in a ball and die. But he had a job to do, concerts to set up and promote, radio shows to appear on, interviews with the press to suffer through. I smiled bravely, and tried not to be a martyr, but insisted that I just wanted to stay in the hotel room, and yes, I'd be fine by myself.

Except not really by myself. After sleeping for as long as I could, I woke up, flicked idly through incomprehensible Australian television channels (if they were in English, unlike the Japanese television, why on earth did they still seem so utterly foreign? I didn't even recognise anyone on Neighbours, they were so many seasons ahead of the BBC) then realised that was not what I was craving. As I was paging through the hotel's television guide, I saw instructions at the end on how to set up the free wi-fi. And so I dragged my laptop out of my luggage and logged onto the internet.

The Loophole was back. I had not realised how easily I'd got used to it  not being there, until I felt the shock of familiarity at the logo on the splash page for the log in. I typed in my email and my password, and there it was, the Loophole, back in all its glory, the chatter, the inanity, the endless debates about what, exactly, Thom had meant in some obscure interview. And yet, somehow, as I read through all the familiar screen-names, and lots of brand new ones, something had changed. It just did not feel the same any more. There seemed something so terribly small, and try-hard, and self-important about the whole thing, about the jostling for status, and the one-upmanship over arcane musical knowledge and the deep seriousness with which people defended their tiny corner of the internet.

But as I read a thread about an interview Thom had given recently, a flamewar slowly devolved into an argument which got steadily more ferocious as both sides dug in, I rolled my eyes and had to close the thread. Six months ago, I'd have waded in, taken sides, offered my opinion and been convinced that I had the definitive viewpoint on What Thom Really Meant. And I'd have been completely wrong. I was getting more accustomed to Thom's odd, incisive way of reasoning these days. I had started to recognise the way he circled an argument cautiously from one direction then another before pouncing on the issue in a movement so subtle it was easy to miss, only to abandon it and move on because he considered the case closed and didn't want to be drawn into saying something he didn't agree with.

It wasn't even that he was purposely vague, he had very distinctive opinions, he just didn't like making it easy for anyone to leap to conclusions about him and why he believed what he believed. He just did not like to be drawn, especially on personal matters, and his spiritual beliefs were just about as personal as they got. The last thing he ever wanted to do was to tell people how to think or what to believe, about god or atheism or anything else. Yet people read his carefully chosen words and somehow seemed to believe they had the unique insight into his own personal truth.

 

> **Were you brought up with any specifically spiritual values?**
> 
> I can remember being dragged to one of those high churches in Scotland when I was a kid, and I didn't like that much. But no, not really.
> 
> **You said in one interview that you were a shameless dabbler in Buddhism**
> 
> I was. I mean, I am - I just never get it together. I've totally just dipped my toes in and walked away, you know? Because there's this whole lifestyle thing about it as well I find really odd. Well, this is just my impression, but a lot of the time people try it on like a new coat and go, 'Well, that's nice!' and walk around for a few weeks and then take it off again. And I don't want to do that. To me, as long as a religion doesn't insist on converting other people, as long as it approaches each issue from the point of view of compassion and tolerance rather than assuming that you're automatically going to heaven and they're going to hell, then that's OK. But when people have this sort of glint in their eye, like 'I'm going to tell you what it's all about,' sort of thing, I'm like, 'No, no, no, no, no.'

 

Talking about religion and spirituality was never an easy topic for anyone to express themselves on. And he was being so typically Thom, to not say yes or no, but to say, it's more complicated than that, and be comfortable with the ambiguity. That saying "well, not really" was not the same as saying unequivocally no. That life wasn't black and white, it was hosts of shades of grey and all the colours of the rainbow as well, so why should he commit to black or white, just to suit someone else's agenda?

It seemed to me that he was trying to dissociate himself from dogmatic and fundamentalist religion, but still assert a kind of spirituality, which was about caring and responsibility and community. And it was so odd, because, knowing Thom, I could always see that deep sense of ethics and morality that underpinned everything he did, that he was always deeply obsessed with this idea of _fairness_. And that underpinned everything that he did, both his compassion and tolerance, and his prejudices and hatreds. But the way that the people on the forum leapt on a few words, like everyone was trying to claim him - the atheists in the group wanted to take this as evidence that he was one of them, while the religious people on the forum wanted to take this as evidence of Thom as a devout Buddhist. Thom? A Buddhist? The awkward way he had bumbled through the temples in Japan like a clumsy Western tourist?

I knew I shouldn't have waded into the argument. Maybe in an impulsive moment, I didn't really think what it would mean to wade into the debate. Or maybe I had taken so much of that wonderful cold medication I wasn't really thinking straight. Or maybe it was just that bull-headed irritation, that someone was being _wrong_ on the internet. I knew I shouldn't have said anything, and yet still, without even realising what I was doing, I hit the reply button.

 

> **LonelyIsAnEyesore** : Look, it's true, Thom is interested in Buddhism. He's interested in lots of things. He's interested in Climate Change, too, but that doesn't make him a scientist. It's a cute idea, Thom being a Buddhist but I think even he'll admit that he admires something he doesn't entirely understand.
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : oh what, so now you've been on tour with radiohead for a week and you're now the supreme expert on thom and everything he believes? get over yourself, lucy
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : I knew it! I know someone as smart as Thom would never be stupid enough to fall for that supernatural superstition bullshit. He's an atheist. Like anyone with a brain is.
> 
> **KillahCarz** : what, on tour with radiohead? like some kind of GROUPIE that follows them about from date to date? get a life, fangirl!
> 
> **Worrywort** : Actually she's on tour with them as in, their *support* band? If Eyesore says something about RH, I'd tend to believe it.
> 
> **BlackStarGirl** : wait ur on tour with them? right now? can u get me an autograph? or better yet get some candid photos of the boys?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : christ if i thought eyesore was a snobby bitch before she's gonna be 10 times worse now she's actually met them
> 
> **BlackStarGirl** : or can you go over and pinch thom in the butt for me? ha ha
> 
> **KillahCarz** : you girls know JACK SHIT about thom yorke. he's a buddhist, that's why he does all the free tibet stuff
> 
> **StockholmSyndrome** : Thom is no more a Buddhist than he's the sex symbol you lot make him out to be. You girls are always making up crazy shit about him, like claiming he's flirting with half the front row. How many of you have claimed he's winked at you cause he's got that fucked up eye? You're imagining things. It's all bullshit and wishful thinking!
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : spoken like someone who's never been on rail in his life
> 
> **BlackStarGirl** : eyesore can settle this for us! please go and ask thom if he really is flirting when he's onstage. and ask him if he remembers the brunette in glasses holding the 'we love you thom' banner in the front of the last new jersey show?
> 
> **PrincessTelex** : ffs, eyesore is NOT the world's expert on thom! i've been to more fucken shows than she has. AND i've actually been backstage and met thom unlike most of the people here

 

I rolled my eyes at the green-eyed monster Telex seemed to have become, noting that she conveniently omitted the fact that it was me that gave her the passes to go backstage in the first place. But then I was overcome with an indescribable sense of sadness. Like I had lost something, even though I wasn't really quite sure what I had lost, just that it was something that might have been important to me. The Loophole had changed, it just didn't seem to be the haven of gooey fangirling it had once been. All the people we'd started the forum to get away from had ended up following us over. Too many fanboys, not enough freaks. And I missed the terrifying intellectualism of those early arguments between me and Allen and Mizz Ting and... and Furious.

Or was I just over-romanticising the innocence of the early days? I hit the back button and searched for the Hot Buttered Thoms thread. Except now, well, it just seemed weird to read that stuff. Even my own contributions, it was like I was reading things that were written by another person. And the more I read, the more I realised, I didn't recognise the man we were talking about when we talked about Thom. It wasn't The Loophole that had changed, it was me.

Radiohead was an abstract entity to their fans, a silver screen for their hopes and fears. Everyone projected exactly what they wanted onto Thom and the rest of the band, the way that paintings of Jesus were blond-haired and blue-eyed in England and black in Ethiopia and looked vaguely Asian in Japan. Something had changed when I'd gone on tour with Radiohead, and changed even more irrevocably when Thom and I had somehow ended up together. He had stopped being that silver screen and started being just a man, a hairy, sometimes smelly, but undeniably human and fleshy man that shared my bed and left his drool-marks all over my pillow and complained about climate change but still left the lights on in the bathroom. Or had he? Or was boyfriend and lover Thom just another projection for my own, more personal needs?

Desperately wanting to reassure myself that this was not the case, and that this was a normal and healthy relationship, I picked up my phone and texted him, the boring chatter that sustained the intimacy of a shared life. I didn't want to read talk about Popstar-Thom. I wanted to talk to Boyfriend-Thom.

 

> **Lucy** : Hey. Are you coming back for lunch this afternoon or should I just get something off room service?
> 
> **Thom** : nah, u go ahead if ur hungry. interviews solid all this afternoon. how r u feeling? dreaded lurgee any better?
> 
> **Lucy** : Yeah I think either the fever has broken or I'm so fevered or full of meds I've stopped caring. Be sure and take those vitamin C tablets I got you so you don't get it.
> 
> **Thom** : i r superman. i don't even get colds any more. i'll be back about 8. shall we get dinner then?
> 
> **Lucy** : Sounds great. Love you. x
> 
> **Thom** : la la love you

 

I smiled at how Boyfriend-Thom couldn't even resist the reference to a song lyric, and walked off singing The Pixies. This was the stuff that Jack, ever aloof, ever cool, had never really bothered with, creating that shared space where we could go together. I had always had to fit myself into his world, never the other way around. Which seemed an odd thing to say, given that I was stuck in a hotel room half a world away from my band and my life and where I was supposed to be. But Thom and I, we seemed to create something together that seemed more important than either of us separately.

And then I took a deep breath and logged back onto the Loophole and clicked through into the private producers' section of the forum, and the thread at the top there took my breath away. Adie had been live-blogging our tour. There was the whole thing, the flight, the capsule hotel, the soundchecks, the shows, the dinners and drinking sessions with Ed and Coz. Yes, it came back to me now, how he kept twitching and compulsively checking his Blackberry - but it made sense now. He'd been writing it all down, in order to share and prolong his utter happiness. How odd it was to read it from the other side, his excitement and joy almost tangible. And how selfish I felt, having been too wrapped up in Thom to even notice, let alone participate. I read all the way to the end - noting the odd gap of nearly a day left undocumented, that he'd chosen not to share our fight with the world, no matter how much he must have wanted to have other people in on his side. And the last post, where he said he was logging off to get on a plane to LA, to maybe get into something really fucking exciting and life-changing, my heart caught in my throat. I opened up an email, wrote short and the to the point, and hit send.

 

> I miss you, lil bro. Touring isn't the same without you. I'll see you in LA next week. Don't you dare start without me. x

 

And then I saw the user list wink, telling me that MizzTing had just come online, at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night in Germany, and as we clocked each other's names, we sent each other near simultaneous Private Messages saying "Come on Instant Messenger! Now!"

 

> **MizzTing** : Good Gott in Himmel, girl! Cat got your tongue? We heard all about the tour from Adie, but where the hell have you been?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Tingie, if I told you the half of it, you wouldn't even believe me.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Try me! Where are you now? LA?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Australia.
> 
> **MizzTing** : What are you even... do I even want to know?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Just give me a minute to type, Tingie!
> 
> **MizzTing** : Waiting!
> 
> **MizzTing** : ...
> 
> **MizzTing** : ......
> 
> **MizzTing** : .........
> 
> **Eyesore** : OK, first things first, Thom and I have got together. It's amazing. I love him, he loves me. I can't even get my head around how great it is. But that's not even... Christ, I may have fucked up my band and my life forever. I think you might have been right about Adie. Because he has ~freaked out~ about the whole thing with Thom, like it's not even about sexual jealousy, but it's something else, like he doesn't think that I can love Thom and commit myself properly to the band with him - and he might be right, because I should be in LA, recording, but instead I'm Australia, in Thom's hotel room, lying in Thom's bed, waiting for him to get home from work so we can make love and just be together, but Tingie, I'm so fucked up because I thought if we got together, things would get simpler, but instead they seem to be getting steadily more complicated?
> 
> **MizzTing** : ok, wow.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I know, right?
> 
> **MizzTing** : Well, alls I can say is, I'm not surprised. Pretty much everyone on the Loophole knew that you and he would end up together from the first day that SleepFuriously exploded onto the forum and you slapped him down and he just took it and asked for more.
> 
> **Eyesore** : ha ha. Wut? really?
> 
> **MizzTing** : and having seen the way you two were all over each other in Berlin, the only thing I can say is I'm only surprised it took you so LONG to get together.
> 
> **Eyesore** : OK, yeah. Fair enough. But it's been fucking complicated. And though I can see now the million and one ways in which we were fooling ourselves that this wasn't going to happen, it's not like there wasn't actual IRL shit stopping us. For real, babe.
> 
> **MizzTing** : I'm happy for you. I really am. I've been on Team Eyesore-and-Furious since forever. But Lucy... Lucy... YOUR BAND. YOUR FUCKING BAND.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I know. I don't want to talk about it, it feels like I have been talking about nothing but my band for a week straight, and now I wanna talk about boys and shoes and makeup.
> 
> **MizzTing** : I know, and we can talk about boys and shoes and makeup later if you want, but right now, Lucy, I gotta bitch slap you and tell you NO. You have not been talking about your band for the past week. I bet good money you have been talking about Thom, Thom, Thom, Thom, Thom and Thom's magical fucking penis for the past week straight. And yeah, fair enough. I'm going to allow you about two weeks of honeymoon period where you get to talk about ThomCock. But Lucy YOUR FUCKING BAND.
> 
> **Eyesore** : Thom's cock. Jesus fucking christ, Tingie, if you had seen Thom's cock, you would stop giving me this grief and just be all "HOLY SHIT THOM'S FUCKING COCK!" It is the most beautiful and amazing cock I have ever seen. Or felt. Or had stuck up me. In my entire life.
> 
> **MizzTing** : I don't care if Thom has a seven foot cock with bells and rainbows and unicorns on it. OK wait, actually I would care, because I would totally put that in my Show. But Lucy. Stop and listen to yourself.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I know. I suck. :-(
> 
> **MizzTing** : and I'm sure that Thommy-boy appreciates you sucking his seven foot unicorn cock.
> 
> **Eyesore** : SHUT UP!
> 
> **MizzTing** : sorry
> 
> **Eyesore** : god now all I can think about is how perfectly his cock fits in my mouth and how he even *tastes* like sex and there is no one else on god's green earth I can tell that to, but you, Tingie. This is insane. I feel like a teenager. I'm nearly 30 years old, and all I can think about is wanting to ~do it~ all the time. With him. In bed, in a chair, on the table, in the shower, backstage, just wherever. He he has to do is look at me and I just want to fuck him - and vice versa, too. We are just like two kids, two teenage kids. At it. Every chance we get. Except I don't even remember being this randy as a teen, I just remember being confused all the time. But now? I dream about his cock. And lots worse. There is no part of my body that we have not found a way to get his cock into. And I keep trying to think of new ways to get his cock in me. Is this even normal?
> 
> **MizzTing** : totally normal. If anything, I think I got a dirtier mind in my 30s. Remember, a man hits his sexual peak at 19, but a woman don't hit hers until she's about 40.
> 
> **Eyesore** : you mean it's going to get worse? Christ.
> 
> **MizzTing** : from what you've told me, it just sounds like you had such a shitty relationship with Jack, that you totally deserve to be with someone you're completely into. Enjoy it.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I'm trying to. But I just feel panicky a lot of the time. Like I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep looking for the catch. And I want to spend all of my time with him, and spend as much of that time as possible fucking him, because I don't even know how long this is going to last.
> 
> **MizsTing** : who cares how long it lasts, if you're enjoying it now? And it sounds to me like you're not even letting yourself enjoy it right now.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I am, though. Every minute I spend with him, it's like... It's the happiest I've ever been. It's pure happiness, pure joy.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Happier than when you make music?
> 
> **Eyesore** : But we make music together. That's the absolutely amazing best part. And this is what I've told no one, even Adie. That when Thom comes onstage with us, and he sings, and it's like he's singing, literally, to me, as I direct him, with my beats and my synths... It's even better than fucking, Tingie. It's like, next level. I understand why Jonny always looks at him like *that* onstage, because it's just... it's better than sex, Tingie. It's magic.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Wow. OK, you got it bad.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I know. I told you you didn't even know the half of it.
> 
> **MizzTing** : And Adie, he's gone from being your bestie, and being your collaborator, to being a third wheel with the two of you? No wonder he's pissed.
> 
> **Eyesore** : And Jonny hates me.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Get outta town! Jonny doesn't hate you, he has always been your biggest booster on the board!
> 
> **Eyesore** : Yeah, when I was only on the board. Not now that I'm the fabulous new toy taking his best friend away from him.
> 
> **MizzTing** : No!
> 
> **Eyesore** : Yes. It's weird. Like, every time the three of us are together, it's like this weird game. And Jonny just reverts to being this annoying little brother who wants to show Thom - or more usually me - some new thing he just can't wait to tell us about. Like, it actually bugs him if we get a private moment together.
> 
> **MizzTing** : ha ha ha. Or maybe they are two men who have been cooped up on tour together for ~two solid years~ at this point and Jonny is jealous that Thom has a new private audience for his jokes and his dumb stories and his stuff, and Jonny doesn't?
> 
> **Eyesore** : Fuck. I didn't think of it like that.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Men are weird, but they're not that weird.
> 
> **Eyesore** : How boringly heteronormative of you, Tingie. Never thought I'd see the day.
> 
> **MizzTing** : HA!
> 
> **Eyesore** : But that's not what's up with Adie, is it?
> 
> **MizzTing** : No, I think Adie is jealous. And probably with some good reason. Because you do need to put your heart back into your band. I mean, Lucy, this shit is taking off! I don't know if you've been on the internet at all, but since your album came out... damn, that shit is off the chain! Have you even seen any of the reviews? The blogosphere is blowing up over this!
> 
> **Eyesore** : No, I haven't been on the internet. I've been on tour in Japan.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Honey, this shit is B.I.G. BIG. You got a 9.7 on Pitchfork and Pitchfork doesn't even like dance music! The NME gave you 5 stars! And a full page in the Village Voice. There's no telling how big this could get. And how quickly.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I'm kinda scared of that. How quickly it's all happened. And how quickly it can un-happen. And Adie is 110% gung-ho, he wants to do it all and do it now. While Thom is...
> 
> **MizzTing** : Thom is what? Furious always seemed like he was super-supportive and encouraging of you.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I don't know. I can't tell. And that bothers me. Like I should know him better. Like, I can't tell if he's over-cautious because he doesn't want us to make the same mistakes that he made. Or if it's because he's got some weird underground fetish, that he wants us to stay a cool, uncommercial little group so the cred will, I dunno, rub off on him.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Come on, Lucy. I've known the guy through the internet for a year now, and I can almost guarantee you it's the former.
> 
> **Eyesore** : I hope you're right. I don't really know what to do.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Go to LA. Check it out. Adie might be young, but he's got a super-good bullshit detector. And if someone gives you a chance, you take it and you run with it. You show them what you can do. You put your all into it, and you blow their minds.
> 
> **Eyesore** : But I'm scared. There are so many things that could go wrong.
> 
> **MizzTing** : Yeah, there are. So don't you be one of them.
> 
> **Eyesore** : So you think I should do it? You think we should go to LA and produce this pop princess and take the paycheck?
> 
> **MizzTing** : I think you should put your all into it. Who says pop has no cred? Fuck cred. Michael Jackson didn't give a shit about cred, he just ruled the planet and showed everybody how it could be done. You guys go be Quincy Jones. You guys go be Berry Gordy.
> 
> **Eyesore** : So you think I should tell Thom to STFU
> 
> **MizzTing** : No, I think you should just show him that his fears are unfounded.
> 
> **Eyesore** : And my fears too, huh?
> 
> **MizzTing** : You gonna let fear rule your life, or are you just gonna R00L?
> 
> **Eyesore** : you are the pep talk I needed, Tingie.
> 
> **MizzTing** : yeah, and I gotta go to bed, it's nearly dawn here. Remember me when you need a gown for the Grammies, huh? x

 

I got off the conversation with Tingie to see a familiar email address waiting in my inbox.

 

> Luce! Big sis!
> 
> Oh my god, you will not *BELIEVE* LA! I rode in a limousine yesterday - for real! A genuine stretch limousine picked us up at the airport and drove us up into the hills, I could not believe it! The hotel is insane, man, but I've hardly been there - we went straight out again to a party up in the Hollywood Hills. A pool party! An actual genuine pool party with, like, models splashing in the hot tub and Timbaland - yes, that is TIMBA-FUCKIN-LAND spinning tunes for the record executives. I didn't think any of this shit was real, but it's just like on TV. Only even crazier and weirder and more extravagant and off the chain. Shit will mess wit your head when you get here.
> 
> But anyway, yes. Before you start shouting at me. I met with Cherry - well that's her stage name at least, I'm sworn to secrecy what her real name is - yesterday and I wasn't even that hungover. She's cool. She's a lot more feisty than I was expecting from someone who was in some dumb reality show. But Thom was wrong, she didn't win. She was kicked out three rounds from the final - show says coz she was caught smoking pot, but she says coz she wouldn't kiss Simon Cowell's arse. But either way, she's a total fucken badass so both are probably true. I seen some tapes of her playing piano like Tori Amos in some dive bar in NYC and she's actually a real pro. She can sing, she can really fucken sing. I think you'll like her.
> 
> Well, you'll either love her or hate her, but yeah, I think she'll be a fucken trip to work with. I cannot wait till you get here, girl. Shit is OFF. THE. CHAIN. as they say in America. Ha ha look at me picking up American slang. Fuck London and their small minds and small dreams. I love LA.
> 
> (Yeah, I've even started to pick up an American accent since I been here. Makes all the girls laugh when I talk "British.")
> 
> See you soon,  
> XOXO, Adie


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonny discovers Thom and Lucy's affair, and it completely unsettles her relationship with the rest of the band.
> 
> And when she tries to meet up with some fans off The Loophole, she discovers the downsides to fame, with regards to fan entitlement.

It was late by the time Thom got back, and I was dozing with the television on, wrapped up in my blankets like a cocoon. I had decided that the Mersyndol was some kind of magic, the way it made the whole world just go away for a few hours.

"How are you feeling?" Thom called as he flicked on the lights, smiling when he saw me.

I stretched, then lay blinking up at him. "Floaty. Kinda." He was carrying a large paper bag, but my nose was so blocked I couldn't tell if it was food. "Please tell me you brought something to eat."

"You must be feeling better if you're hungry," he teased, sitting down beside me on the edge of the bed, pushing packets of codeine and flu medication out of the way to put the bag down. "You look like a little baby bird in a nest of pillows," he told me, bending over to kiss my forehead. "Ooh, you are quite warm. Are you sure you're not running a fever?"

"I'm not. You're just cold as ice, and this room is over-heated."

"It really isn't. It's actually quite chilly." Digging in the bag, he pulled out a large plastic container. "I asked at the Chinese takeaway, though, what's good for a cold. And this, apparently, will sort you out. Hot and sour soup. Very spicy."

"Aw, give it here." My stomach rumbled as I took it from him. Had I really not eaten since breakfast? "I am actually feeling a lot better. In fact, I feel quite nice. Though that might be the drugs."

"Are you sure you're not delirious with fever?" he fussed, pushing my braids out of the way to feel my forehead.

"I'm fine. You worry far too much."

"You've only just figured this out?" He grinned lopsidedly as he kicked off his shoes and pushed into the bed beside me. "Come on, move over."

"Don't. You'll catch it."

"I'm willing to take that risk. And anyway, I'm eating chilli tofu with extra garlic sauce, so there is no way I'm catching anything." Even as he pulled his dinner out of the bag, he tried to kiss me, but before we could go any further, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Hang on, hang on, I'm coming," he grumbled, rolling out of bed and padding over to answer the door.

Without even waiting to be invited in, Jonny pushed his way into the room, another bag of Chinese takeaway in one hand, and his laptop in the other. "How are you, Lucy? Thom told me you're feeling poorly." Without waiting for  reply, he brandished the laptop, setting it up on top of the television. "I've downloaded you some comedy to watch... you can get anything off the internet these days! Old Young Ones episodes, like we were talking about before - oh, and this new thing I've just discovered, called the Mighty Boosh. It's hilarious, you've got to see it..." He adjusted his laptop to bring up the media player, started the movie, then flopped back on the other bed opposite us. "I always find it makes me feel much better if I watch funny or stupid things when I'm feeling poorly. Laughter is the best medicine."

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Thom moved back to sit beside me on the bed again, though not as close as he had before. Jonny looked over, frowning slightly, but said nothing. Come on - by this point, he had to have twigged what was going on between Thom and I, but perhaps he was just too polite to say. For a moment, I was irritated and wanted him to leave - he had been with us in the hotel in Osaka, he had invited himself back to our room in the hotel in Tokyo on our last night in Japan, was he planning on spending the entire Australian tour in our room, as well? Was he trying to split Thom and I up, or keep us apart by making sure we were never alone together? But then I remembered what Tingie had said. So I sipped my soup, then smiled across at him.

"I don't think I know this one, Jonny. Is this the one you were telling me about, with the Launderette?"

"No, this is the one with the South African Vampire - except, as he says, _I'm not vempire, I'm a driving instructor... from Johannesburg_!" Jonny creased up at his own impression, and slapped his thigh. He was like an overgrown child who had never really grown up. "It's so good, you're going to love this bit. Hang on, do you want some noodles? I seem to have extra."

"No thanks, I'm alright." Finishing my soup and moving on to the tofu that Thom had brought, I found myself caught up in the anarchic humour of the programme. "Hang on, is that Dave Vanian? Of the Damned?"

"Yes!" Jonny enthused, perking up. "There was a musical guest on every episode. Madness were on, and Motorhead. And Dexy's Midnight Runners. And..."

"Don't get him started," Thom warned, trying very hard to pretend that he wasn't watching, though I caught him snickering several times, especially once Rik started going on a rant about politics.

"Now who does that remind me of?" I wondered aloud, grinning at Thom. "I've heard someone recently... maybe named Sleep Furiously? doing that exact rant."

"Fuck off," Thom sputtered, though I couldn't quite tell if his outrage was self mockery or not. "I'm much more like Vyvyan."

"Who's Jonny like, then?" I asked innocently, but Thom snickered aloud.

"Jonny's the Neil of the band."

"No I'm not. Ed is the Neil of the band. He's far more of a hippie than I am."

"Are you sure these aren't South African lentils?" Thom teased.

"Are you sure this isn't South African pesto slop?" giggled Jonny.

"Oh god who actually cleaned up the pesto slop in the end?" Thom cackled.

"Who do you think? Oh, you all hate me, you never acknowledge me unless something goes wrong, I'm going to quit the band to major in peace studies," Jonny parroted, flapping his hands and they both creased up, cackling at some inside joke, until the scene changed, and Mike, 'the Cool Person' strutted across the screen.

Both of them pointed at the laptop at once, and screamed, almost in unison "Coz!" and then collapsed in laughter. I stared back and forth between them, completely mystified, then rolled my eyes and shook my head. At least they seemed to be getting on now they were laughing at each other, something I hadn't been entirely sure of a few days ago.

"Put the one with the Launderette on next," Thom urged. "It's hilarious - the awful snobby Oxbridge team on University Challenge reminds me a lot of your horrible ex husband, Lucy."

Jonny's ears pricked up as he looked over, as if noticing for the first time that the two of us were basically lying in bed together, Thom's arm casually draped around my shoulders. " _Ex_ husband?"

"Well, it won't be official until the decree nisi comes through, but yes. Very much ex. Thank god," I sighed, leaning back against Thom's chest with an unmistakable air of intimacy. Maybe I was sick of hiding. Maybe I secretly wanted to be caught. Maybe I'd had too much of that brain-melting cold medication and it had made me careless, but this time, Jonny finally twigged.

Looking back and forth between us as he realised the importance of what I'd just said, Jonny's face darkened until his eyes came to rest on Thom. "Thom... are you... _with_ Lucy?"

I squirmed awkwardly. "Jonny, you were the person who introduced us. You were the one who insisted that I should meet Furious, get to know him... what did you think, given how we interacted online, was going to..."

"I didn't think that you two would... would..." Jonny, almost purple-faced with the effort of trying to stay polite while clearly outraged, stumbled over the indelicate concept of what, exactly, he thought Thom and I were doing, and Thom surged into the gap.

"Don't," warned Thom sharply, and Jonny dropped the line of questioning instantly, stumbling to his feet to put the next episode of the comedy on.

"I think it's called Bambi, that one that you like. I'll see if I can find it." And with that, Jonny busied himself with his laptop and pretended not to see Thom reach out and quietly take my hand, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze.

But from that moment, things between Jonny and I changed. It was subtle - of course Jonny was far too polite and well-brought-up to ever express his disapproval openly - but from then on, it was like Jonny no longer trusted me. I would turn around abruptly and catch him looking at me, his eyebrows knitted with disapproval, for a split second before he had the good grace to smile or look away. And from then on, we were seldom properly alone again. Jonny kept having to talk to Thom, urgently, at lunchtime or at soundcheck, making sure he got in our taxi back to the hotel. He kept finding excuses to invite himself over to our room at odd times, though Thom was far too polite to ever ask him to leave.

I was annoyed. How could I not be? A part of me wanted to shout at him, to accuse him _This is your fault, you know. None of this would have happened if you hadn't insisted on taking me backstage and throwing me at Thom. None of this would have happened if you hadn't encouraged me to become friends with Furious - in fact, if it wasn't for you, Thom would have joined the forum as himself and I would never have spoken to him at all._

But then again, that was ridiculous, wasn't it? Thom and I were both adults. Either of us could have stopped this at any point. In fact, both of us had tried to stop this, at multiple points, and it had happened anyway. So why blame Jonny for it? And yet, still, I hated his darkly disapproving eyes on me like that.

And touring was weird without my band. Of course I loved Thom, and I loved being with him, and loved his band and getting to see and hear them, night after night - and yet I felt distinctly empty without something to be doing myself. The gulf between Radiohead's soundcheck and their performance, which had previously been the busiest part of my day, a rollercoaster of adrenaline and excitement, now yawned like a gulf of boredom. I'd get out my laptop and muck about, writing brief scraps of songs while I waited for Thom to come back from yet another interview, but it just wasn't the same without Adie breathing constant enthusiasm in my ear. I was bored, restless, and actually slightly lonely, even in the middle of the crowd of people that made up the Radiohead touring party. And yet every time I wanted to spend some quality alone-time with Thom, there was Jonny tagging at our feet like an irritating little brother.

Thom, of course, thought I was being oversensitive, when I tried, with the greatest of subtlety and tact, to bring it up during one of the few early morning lie-ins we got to enjoy. He and Jonny had such a strange relationship. Although they talked, constantly, kind of weaving together this affectionate patter of shared references and in-jokes, they didn't actually _talk_ , in any recognisable kind of way, about what they were feeling. Thom had impressed upon Jonny that he was not willing to talk about me, and that was that. They did not talk about me. And yet the _lack of talking_ about me seemed to hang heavy in the air between them - or rather, in the air between Jonny and me, because, by the end of the Australian leg, we had stopped communicating, except in this strange three-way traffic through Thom. 

By the time we reached Melbourne, I decided to try and make some desperate peace offering to Jonny. There was still the matter of the hoodie I needed to replace, so I logged onto the Loophole and messaged Worrywort to see if she could tell me where the best places to go shopping were in her hometown. She wrote back almost immediately, suggesting that we meet for lunch, so she could take me on a guided tour of the coolest boutiques and markets. I checked the band's itinerary; Thom had an interview with a local radio station, then would be soundchecking the rest of the afternoon. So I begged a spare backstage pass off the road manager, as a present for Worrywort, and made my way to a wonderfully laid-back and comfortable cafe to meet her for lunch.

Worrywort - Helen, in real life - saw me coming, squealed as she leapt up from her table, and threw her arms around me in a warm Aussie welcome. After a week of strangers, it was such a relief to be greeted like an old friend. "So you and Furious hooked up at last," she laughed, even as she was still squeezing me. She was at least six inches taller than me, and quite athletic, so there was no getting away from the hug. "We all knew you'd never actually leave the tour once you two met. Tell me all about him, what's he like, is he as funny in person as he is online..."

As I finally pulled away from her, I was about to relax and spill the beans to a sympathetic ear, when I looked down at our table and realised there was another young woman sitting there wearing an OK Computer T-shirt. "Hello, are you on the forum?" I asked suspiciously. I wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere over the course of the tour, I had started to worry about Radiohead fans.

"I lurk," the new woman shrugged, eyeing me back as if trying to get the measure of me.

"This is Lynn," Helen explained. "She's coming with me to the show tonight, so I thought I'd ask her along. So it can be a little Loophole meetup - obviously not as exciting as your big London meetups, but still. Exciting for us. Radiohead come here so rarely."

"You're in KidAdie's band," Lynn observed. "You've been on tour with them, right?"

"Um, yes." Given that she already knew who I was, it seemed pointless to try to deny it. But now I suddenly understood the hesitation with which Furious had once confessed that he was in Radiohead's touring party.

"So you can get us backstage passes, right?" The bald-faced boldness with which she asked, within 30 seconds of being introduced to me, it actually shocked me.

"Well, I don't know about that," I hedged, feeling the Access All Areas pass I'd procured for Helen suddenly burning a hole in my pocket. Helen, I trusted; I knew Worrywort would probably just chat amicably with Jonny about synths and not really make that much of a nuisance of herself. This Lynn girl, I didn't know her at all, and something in her manner just seemed off to me.

"You're in the support band, you've got to have passes," she persisted. "I've got to get backstage. This is the first time they've been in Australia since 1998. Just smuggle me in, lie and say I'm your roadie or something. Or tell me where the fire exit is, I can just sneak in."

As I pulled back, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Helen winced, then tactfully changed the conversation. "So what do you want for lunch? You've got to try the swordfish steaks, they're really, really good here. You can afford them, now you're like a world-famous rock star, you," she teased, elbowing me playfully.

"World famous, ha ha ha, if you count England and Japan," I giggled, pushing my sunglasses off the top of my head and back onto my nose. "Swordfish sounds great, actually. I'm not allowed to eat meat when Furious is around," I sighed, taking the menu from her and looking up and down the mouth-watering selection of fresh fish.

"Who's Furious? Furious is a roadie, right?" Lynn persisted. "Can he get us backstage? Like, I'm willing to do anything, you know. Even if it means sucking a bit of roadie cock."

Helen rolled her eyes, even as I fixed Lynn with my most no-nonsense stare. "Um, Lynn? Furious is Lucy's boyfriend. Just so you know."

My heart sank, even as Lynn turned to give her order to the waitress. There was no way I was going to be able to discuss anything with Helen now. Even after we'd all ordered, and I tried to ask about comic book shops, thinking that I might get back on Jonny's good side by picking up some rare Australian editions, Lynn took that as a springboard to launch into a declaration of undying affection for Jonny. Christ, it was odd, how things had changed. A year, even six months ago, I would probably have laughed and joined in, as if it were just an extension of the Fangirl Thread. But now it suddenly seemed gauche as Lynn detailed how she wanted to lick the man's cheekbones and lots more besides. Jonny was no longer just the ball of cheekbones and silky black hair on Stage Right. He was an overgrown, bony kid brother, sitting at the other end of the breakfast table, his nose in a book, cackling with laughter over a Young Ones reference, his long legs, capped with mismatched socks, sprawled, frog-like, across the hotel room carpet as he glared disapprovingly at Thom and I.

"Yeah, she's never going to agree with you," Helen laughed, even though she was now clearly enjoying the slightly salacious banter. "Lucy is a Thom fan."

"Ugh, but why? Thom is so ugly," Lynn snorted. "I guess I probably wouldn't kick him out of bed, but... well, you know." She pulled a face, a grotesque imitation of Thom's lopsided squint, exaggerating his ptosis, and I suddenly hated her.

No, that wasn't fair. We'd all poked fun at Thom over the years, it was just the affectionate banter of long-term fans. But was this going to spoil my enjoyment of the fandom now? It felt like a lie, pretending to swoon over them with the giddy detachment of a fangirl when it was just so much more complicated now. Had becoming Thom's lover destroyed something about fandom that I'd once really deeply loved? But she was back on backstage passes now, and I wanted to sink down under the table, even as the food arrived.

"Are you alright?' Helen asked, as I toyed my fish, my appetite deserting me.

"Yeah, I just picked up a bit of a cold back in Sydney," I lied, even as I hated being so evasive with her. She had always been my friend online; loving Radiohead had brought us together and made us close. So I hated the idea that this band, this entity, this _thing_ , Radiohead, had started making me have to lie to my friends.

After lunch, we made our way to an open-air market selling all kinds of handmade and crafted type clothes, second hand records and head shop paraphernalia, like an antipodean Camden Market. I kept hoping that we had lost Lynn in the crowd, so I could tell Helen even a tiny glimpse of what had happened in the past week, but every time I got too close to her, Lynn would reappear, demanding to know what we were talking about.

I did at least find a hoodie, though, at an organic hemp stall run by a pair of fragrant hippie girls. There was an olive green jacket with a peaked hood, in a beautifully textured hemp fabric, with soft, reddish brown fleece inside, that I thought seemed to match Jonny's aesthetic. I had to guess at his size by the memory of the other hoodie, and how far the sleeves had hung down below my hands, measuring the length against my thighs.

"That's a man's jacket," Helen observed with a wink. "So I'm gathering Furious is quite skinny but a good bit taller than you?"

I glanced around nervously, then realised that Lynn had got distracted by a bootleg T-shirt stall selling a whole new range of fake Radiohead shirts on the other side of the passageway. "Nope, Furious is almost exactly my size. This jacket is for Jonny," I told her with a wink.

"Oh my god, you're giving Jonny a jacket? Can I ask you a favour?" she whispered, moving closer. "I got him a little present, but I'm too shy to try to meet him, to give it to him. Can you just sneak it in the pocket, and say it's from me?" Reaching into her own bag, she pulled out a tiny figurine of one of his favourite comic book characters.

"I can do better than that," I assured her, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure that Lynn was still engrossed in the bad T-shirt copies, then dipped into my own pocket. "Here. Pass. Access All Areas. Don't let Lynn see it, cause I can not get you another one."

"Oh my god," Helen sputtered, holding the pass out in front of her like it was Willy Wonka's golden ticket.

"Don't let Lynn see what?" she demanded, appearing beside us like a demon that was summoned by its own name. "Holy shit, you do have a pass after all." And with that, she reached out and snatched it, right out of Helen's hands before she could even protest. "Access All Areas, that's like the holy grail of backstage passes."

"That's not yours, give it back," I snapped.

"Where's mine, then?" she demanded.

"It's the only one I have, and it's Helen's. It's got her name on it," I pointed out, though technically it only said Worrywort. Anyone could be Worrywort.

"Give me one!" Lynn insisted, holding the pass out of Helen's reach as she tried politely to take it back. "Or give me your laminate. You can spare it, there's no way they're not going to let you backstage if you're dating a roadie."

"No way," I snorted, really offended by the girl's sense of entitlement. "Come on, give it back to Helen. It's hers."

"You're not fucking off backstage and leaving me alone, no way." Lynn had pocketed the pass now, there was no getting it back off her without a fight.

"And yet you'd do the same thing to Helen?" I retorted. "Steal her pass and go without her?"

"What do you care? You're fucking a roadie, you can get anther one," Lynn shrugged.

"Look, I don't care. I don't even want to go backstage," Helen protested diplomatically. "You have it, if it means that much to you. But you're being really beastly to Lucy..."

Lynn was backing away from us, shaking her head, then suddenly, she looked at the pass, looked at Helen, then frowned darkly, shook her head, then turned and broke into a run, away from us, back out of the market.

"What the fuck?" I snarled, so angry I nearly forgot to pay for the hoodie. "Jesus, I've been an obsessed Radiohead fan for a dozen years now, but I'd never fuck over one of my friends for them. What an utter cow!"

Helen just stood, shaking her head as she watched the retreating back of her friend disappear around a corner. "I told her she could have it," she said mournfully, then turned back to me. "Now I've got no one to go to the gig with, is the annoying thing. I only made friends with her on the forum coz she's the only other Loopholer in Melbourne."

"Bollocks, you're coming with me," I insisted, rummaging through my pockets for Australian money and paying for the jacket as one of the hippies folded it into a paper bag. "I'll tell the road manager that the pass was stolen off me, they'll take it away from her. But you... you're coming back to the hotel with me to meet the boys."

"Wait, what... Radiohead's hotel...? I can't get in there."

"I can, though," I shrugged, pulling the laminate that Lynn had wanted so badly out of my jacket pocket. "Come on, you're going to give this to Jonny," I insisted, handing the bag with the hoodie in it to her.

I didn't tell her that I was making her give Jonny the jacket because he was not really speaking to me. I tactfully left that part out. But the look on her face, as I showed my room key at the desk, breezed up to the floor, let myself into Thom's room, then knocked on the partition door, which swung slowly back to reveal an equally surprised Jonny, well, that was priceless.

For a moment Jonny just looked back and forth between me, irritated, and Helen, confused, and I was afraid he was going to slam the door on us, so I plunged straight in. "Jonny, this is Helen - she's Worrywort on the forum."

His face lit up in a wide grin of recognition. "Oh! Yes. Worrywort, of course! You're the one who programmed that really excellent emulator of the EMS Synthi, aren't you?"

"Yes, that was me," Helen confessed, blushing furiously.

"Come in, come in. Would you like a cup of tea?" Jonny stepped back, gesturing for us to enter his room, decked with clutter as usual. "I use that emulator all the time when I'm on the road, for mapping out ideas. I love it, it's such a good tool. It's actual synthesis, not a sample, isn't it?"

"Well, it's just a tone generator," Helen shrugged modestly. "But all the comb filters and LFOs and things are programmed based on calculations of the original specifications..." She was still standing nervously at the threshold, clutching the paper bag to her chest. "It sounds pretty good if you don't push the modulation too hard."

"We've, erm... got something for you?" I reminded Helen before she disappeared into an hour-long conversation about filter-sweeps with Jonny.

"Oh yeah, this is for you," Helen unwrapped herself from the parcel and handed it to him carefully, trying very hard not to meet his eyes, as if she were afraid he would actually disappear if she looked at him too hard. It was quite sweet seeing them interact, really, both of them so shy and yet buzzing with appreciation for one another. Why couldn't all fan interactions be like this?

Jonny carefully extracted the jacket, and then grinned. "A new hoodie, how did you know I needed one?" He shot a sharp look at me, then smiled back at Helen before squinting at the garment. "Is it green or brown?" he asked helplessly.

"It's brown and green. It'll go with anything," Helen assured him. "Check the pocket. That was my part of the gift."

I couldn't tell if Jonny was any less annoyed with me, but he was certainly pleased with Helen, especially after she showed him how to crack the back end of her emulator program and change some of the parameters in the programming code. The two of them were so engrossed with his laptop that she barely noticed Thom as he came back to the hotel and strolled, curiously, through the open connecting door. I caught his eye first, and made our secret hand-signal that meant "cool it," a finger to the lips, then scratching the side of the nose, which meant that we were to stay apart in public. It was funny, how quickly we'd adapted, how we'd developed this whole range of private communication in the space of two weeks. Two weeks that felt like two years in some ways, and just two minutes in others.

"The taxi's here, come to take us to soundcheck," Thom announced, smiling at the two heads bowed over the computer together.

"Would you like to come to soundcheck?" Jonny suggested. "I could show you my proper synth, then, and perhaps you could make the adjustments to your emulator, to make it more like my kit?"

"I can't. I don't have a pass," Helen sighed, forgetting that that probably wouldn't matter if she was actually travelling with the band.

"Oh yeah," I lied, to cover for her. "Someone nicked her backstage pass while we were at the market. Can you call security, have them put a stop on anyone calling themselves Worrywort trying to get backstage?"

"Not a problem. We'll get you another one."

It was actually fun, seeing the chaos of backstage from the eyes of a newcomer again. Then again, how quickly I'd gone from confused newcomer a few weeks ago, to jaded regular even on this brief tour. Showing Helen around, I felt like an old hand, showing her the band's setup onstage, the sound reinforcement, the monitors, the two sets of sound-desks for onstage sound and front of house sound. I showed her the best place to stand, so that she could see everything, and yet not be in the way of the crew. And suddenly it came back to me, as I chatted with her about feedback protection and in-ear monitors, why I had loved the Loophole so much. Geeking out about music, this was my life.

Jonny was actually wearing his new hoodie, as if he really liked it, sleeves rolled up and hood pulled up over his hair. But then I saw Thom grinning at him, looking him up and down admiringly. "Nice jacket, Jon-Jon." A pause for comedic effect. "Can I borrow it some time?"

Jonny just glared at him, and turned away with a snort. No, the truce was not going to hold, even with the peace offering of a garment. I hated seeing them like this. I hated it even more, feeling like I was the cause of it. Once the tour was over, when there were no more fans and bandmates around to confuse things, we would have to sit down, the three of us, and have this out. Explain what we were doing, what was going on, how Thom and I really were in love, and wanted to be together - but then again, that would imply that Thom and I knew what we were doing, and where we were going, which we really hadn't talked about, beyond the two weeks.

But before I could get Jonny on his own, and confront him, and ask him or tell him, more likely, what was going on, we were all on another airplane headed for California. Radiohead were going off to play Coachella, but I was going to LA to face the rest of my life.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consumed with guilt, Lucy skips out on seeing Radiohead at Coachella to reconnect with her roots and reunite with her missing bandmate.
> 
> Together, they meet up with the artist that EMI wants them to produce, which turns out to be rather a surprise.

LA. My first impression was of it was blindingly bright and searingly hot, especially after the chill of autumnal Australia. There was no limousine for us, only a sort of mini-bus with tinted windows that had been hired to take Radiohead out to Coachella, though they would be staying in a hotel, not on a tourbus.

I was not going to Coachella; I had already made that decision. I was going to stay in LA, with Adie and Mariko, to meet this Cherry person and try to talk our way into or out of a record deal according to the results. So the minibus dropped me and my suitcase on a street corner in downtown LA, as Thom tried not to make a fuss in front of his bandmates, just trying to grab a moment of privacy for us to say a proper goodbye, even for just a weekend. And as much as I loved him, I was actually craving time away from... well, not even so much _his_ intensity as the intensity of being around the whole Radiohead machine. And, well... alright, away from those accusatory Greenwood Hard Stares. I just wanted to chill out, go to a pool party, relax on a floating lilo in the sunshine, regardless of whether supermodels were dancing to Timbaland jams or no.

And so I hugged Thom, out on the pavement behind the bus, pulling him close and kissing him on the cheek then whispering in his ear that I loved him, and he whispered back the same. I waved jauntily at the bus as it departed, then dragged my wheelie suitcase into the lobby of the distinctive Capitol Records building. The receptionist eyed me suspiciously, but I tried to smile and pushed my sunglasses onto the top of my head.

"Hi, my name is Lucy Wildwood. I have an appointment to meet Mariko..." I stumbled over her surname, which I realised I didn't actually know. The whole thing had been arranged by Adie. A blank stare. "With Adie Smith? We're working on the Cherry project?" Not even so much as a flicker of recognition passed across his face. "Axiom N Atom."

"Axiom N Atom." His face lit up at that name. "Ah yes, of course. We've been expecting you." Pressing a few buttons on the phone, he whispered quietly into his mouthpiece, then nodded towards the lifts. "Elevator up to the third floor, a secretary will greet you at reception and take you through."

I tried to rearrange my unruly braids in a loose ponytail, in the mirrored surface of the lift and applied a touch-up coat of lipstick, but I still had the sallow skin and dazed stare of someone who had been on a plane for the best part of 24 hours. But the receptionist on the third floor greeted me with an offer of fresh-brewed coffee and showed me to an opulent ladies' room where I could refresh myself before the meeting. When I was ready, she took my suitcase and stood it behind reception, handed me a cup of absolutely amazing coffee, then guided me into Mariko's new office.

The building was round, so there were no corner offices, but still, the view from Mariko's office knocked me out - I mean, come on. No matter how cool or anti-corporate you represented yourself as being, the Hollywood Sign was still impressive. And Mariko, cool, calm, collected Mariko in her expensive suit, she almost purred with pleasure as I gaped.

"Adie and Cherry are on their way over from a studio they've been checking out, but thank you so much for coming," she said diplomatically. "Did Thom and the boys get off to Coachella OK?"

"Yes," I replied cautiously, unsure of how much she knew, or had guessed about my affair with Thom - or indeed if Adie had told her. I desperately wanted to ask her, what she had done with Adie, where things were with them, but to even ask was to open up the conversation of my own clandestine relationship. "What's the studio for? I thought Adie was buying a load of equipment so we could record it ourselves, as we always have."

"Oh of course, for writing the material, but we thought a proper studio would be best for recording the vocals, to achieve the best possible performance."

I thought for a moment of the performance that Thom had given, crouched on the floor of the tiny box-room of Interstep Towers, in the wrong end of Croydon, into a beat-up old SM57 with a pair of tights for a pop-guard, but I said nothing. It was their money, after all.

"We have a deal with quite a lovely recording complex nearby, with several studios and a mastering suite. You might know it. Ocean Way? It's quite famous." Mariko smiled coyly at the understatement. Ocean Way was only the studio where all the Beach Boys' most famous work had been recorded. I nodded sagely, trying to cover the little-girl excitement in my eyes. "In fact, we have one our artists recording out there right now, who Adie and Cherry went to visit. You might know the producer on that project... Nigel Godrich?"

I shook my head slowly. Adie was spending the morning hanging out with Nigel Godrich at Ocean Way? He'd be in absolute heaven. "We've never met, but I certainly know his work."

"Well, your partner Thom knows him." The smile on her face seemed to widen at the ambiguity of that term, whether she meant Thom as my musical or my romantic partner. "And will surely recommend the studio, too."

"I'm sure he will," I replied non-comittally.

But at that moment, there was a burst of noise as the secretary opened the door and Adie burst into the room in a surge of noise and energy. He squealed when he saw me, walked over and threw his arms around me, as if it had been a month since he had seen me last, instead of just a week, but the genuine warmth on his face reassured me that we were OK, we were besties again. "Lookit you, girl," he cooed. "We need to get you out of those clothes and onto a beach! You would not believe the beaches here..." As he pulled away and grinned at me broadly, I noticed that his skin had darkened to a deep brown in the sun, and his hair had turned more bronze than red. It suited him, he looked healthy and sun-kissed and handsome.

"Tell me about it," agreed a young woman just behind him, flopping down onto the sofa in a whirlwind of cut-off denim and expensively cut and tinted hair. "Can we leave this stuffy office and have this meeting up by the pool? Preferably with a couple of pitchers of pina colada and maybe some tacos?" She grinned as she looked me over. "Do you eat tacos, or are you another one of those skinny LA bitches who lives on fresh air and 'vitamin' shots?" She did air quotes around the _vitamin_ with a mock-innocent expression that made me burst out laughing, not sure whether to be offended or amused. "Omigod, I love your hair," she ploughed on, draping a pair of beaten-up cowboy boots across Mariko's tasteful coffeetable. "Where'd you get that done? They'd never let me do anything as cool as dreads to my hair but it looks fucking gorgeous on you. I'm Cherry, by the way, you must be Lucy?"

"Thank you. Yes," I stuttered, though it was hard to get a word in edgewise with this force of nature dressed up as an attractive young woman.

"Adie's told me aaaaaalll about you. And omigod, I love your album, it's so fucking fresh - no wait, what was it you taught me to say, Adie?" She rolled her eyes and laughed at her rubbish accent as she tried to imitate Adie. "It's _well cool_. Ha ha, that kills me. Well cool. I love it."

"Fresh," I echoed, as both Adie and Cherry collapsed with laughter. Did kids still say 'fresh'? I hadn't heard it since the 80s, but with the endless series of 80s revivals, who knew.

"I can't go to the beach just yet, I still have some business to take care of, some phone calls to make," Mariko stalled.

"Don't you have a cellular phone?" Cherry wheedled.

"What did you think of Ocean Way, Adie?" Mariko asked, shrugging Cherry off like an unruly toddler.

"Oh my god!" Adie rolled his eyes dramatically, South London creeping back into his voice as he forgot the fake American accent he was cultivating. "All those knobs and faders, right! I wouldn't know what to do with the 'alf of it!"

"You would have an engineer," Mariko pointed out.

"Nigel had a whole army of engineers!" Adie suddenly remembered, sitting up and looking at me. "Did I tell you? We met Nigel Godrich, he's here, in in LA, recording at the studio. The same studio where they've told us we can go and play. Pinch me, mate, this is a fucking dream." With this, he fell back against the sofa, snickering as he looked over at Cherry, who broke into a stream of giggles in sympathy.

I moved closer, trying to get a look at his pupils. "Adie, are you high?"

"Naaaahhh... oh, alright, maybe. Just a little. 'S all Nigel's fault, though."

Mariko frowned, and I felt myself torn between feeling slightly sorry for her, as clearly drugs were not that much of a problem in the tightly regulated music industry of Japan, and feeling slightly smug that she'd found Adie a big more than she'd bargained for, throwing that much money at an unproven 20 year old boy.

"Look," I suggested diplomatically. "I haven't eaten yet. How about me and Adie and Cherry go and get a late lunch or early dinner or whatever, then we meet you at the beach when you're done with your business?"

"Alright," Mariko agreed. "Get a receipt, I'll reimburse you and expense it."

"Expense it? Let's go to Nobu!" Adie suggested enthusiastically as the three of us trooped back down in the lift.

"After a week in Japan, I am fucking sick to the back teeth of sushi. I think Cherry's right. Let's get tacos and margaritas on the beach." I turned towards her, trying to make up my mind whether I liked her or not. "Did you have somewhere in mind?"

"Well, depends what you want. Do you want greasy and cheap but really spicy and amazing from a street food shack, or do you want to go to the upmarket yuppie bar with all the glass windows and the avocado burritos and californian spring rolls and shit?" She pursed her lips and examined me in return as she awaited my reply.

"I'm from South London. Cheap and cheerful is my style."

"Well, awright." She grinned and nodded her approval. "Let's get a cab. I'm gonna take you to the best kept secret in Santa Monica."

Half an hour later, we were sitting at a wooden picnic table at the head of a stretch of pure golden sand, eating the most delicious burrito I'd ever tasted in my life, as Cherry splashed booze into plastic cups from a tall pitcher of cheap margaritas. The sun was fantastic, I wanted to just shed my layers of clothes and stretch out my skin in the heat, digging in my bag for a pair of sunglasses.

"So are you from the same part of South London as Adie is? Coz your accents are really different," Cherry asked between mouthfuls of burrito, clearly mesmerised by that American fascination with 'British' accents.

"Ha ha, no, Lucy's well posh," laughed Adie.

"Posh - is that, like, rich?" Cherry wondered.

"Not always," I replied somewhat defensively. "How on earth do you explain Class to Americans? It's like two entirely different cultures, two different societies living side by side in the same country."

"Oh, we have something like that," Cherry insisted. "There's rich folks and poor folks here, too. And the more time I spend in LA, the more I realise what a different world rich folks live in, just how different it is from the world I grew up in."

"Where's your accent from?" I probed. "I've only ever met Americans from New York, and you don't sound like you're from New York."

"Me? I got kinda a weird accent, I know. I was born and raised in Kentucky, but my family moved to Texas when my Mom figured out I could sing. Figured there would be more opportunities there for me."

"So what kind of music do you like, then?"

She opened her eyes really wide, as if this were the first time she'd really considered it, or maybe nobody ever bothered asking her, they just told her. She had huge, almost sea-coloured blue eyes in the midst of a wide, round, porcelain pale face like a child's doll, which made her look a lot more innocent than the sass that came out of her mouth. "I grew up on Country and Western. Old stuff, you know, Carter Family, Patsy Cline." Throwing her head back, she opened her mouth to let rip. "I stop to see a weepin' willow, crying on its pillow, maybe it's crying for me-ee-ee!"

I stared at her, completely taken aback at hearing _that_ voice, that thick and smoky woman voice, tremulous with sorrow and pain, aching with heartbreak yet defiant in its proud strength, billowing up out her little girl face. "Wow." I turned to Adie, who smirked at me with an _I-told-you-so_ expression. "Where'd you learn to sing like that?"

"Learned off my dad's old records. He still sometimes jokes that when I sing, he can hear the scratch and the crackle of his turntable." She smiled and made a face as she sucked up the last of her margarita then splashed more booze into all our glasses.

"I know nothing about country music," I confessed. "It's a giant blank for me."

"I can make you a mixtape," she offered brightly. "And not that modern shit, either. The classics. Tammy. Dolly. Reba."

"Is that what you really love? Is that what you want to be singing?" Why on earth had Mariko teamed her up with us, then?

She thought about it for a minute, then shook her head briskly. "Nah, it's just what I grew up with. It's all I knew. But since I got to LA, I've been trying to educate myself. I go to Amoeba records pretty much every afternoon and just sit in the listening booths, listening to old stuff. I found I really like Soul - Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, that kind of thing. Just, their voices... how bold, and yet how wounded they sound, at the same time." Another pause as she sucked at her drink. "And the more modern R&B stuff, too. Erykah Badu, Lauren Hill..."

Adie risked another glance at me. "You just won a friend for life, Cherry."

"I love Erykah," I confessed.

"Oh, me too, this is going to be so great!" Cherry enthused, splashing more margarita into my glass. "I'm so glad Mariko hooked me up with you guys, this is just going to be awesome."

"What's your favourite song?"

"What, by Erykah, or by anyone?"

"Either. I'm just trying to get a feel for what you're into. I mean, we're supposed to write songs for you. So I want to make sure that we write stuff that you're going to really love."

"OK." She bent forward, tucking her hair behind her ears, biting her lips as she thought about it. "OK, this is kinda weird, you might not have heard of it. Most of my friends haven't. But it's by this English group, so you might. They're called Massive Attack?"

"If you say Unfinished Sympathy, I'm going to..." warned Adie, scrunching up his eyes. Typical Adie, he'd probably been showing off to her so much about his own musical taste that he hadn't bothered asking her about hers.

"Nah. I like that one, but it's not my favourite. I like this other one, Protection. _I'll stand in front of you, take the force of the blow, protect you... coz you're a boy and I'm a girl... you're a girl and I'm a boy.._. God, the way she sings it, it just gives me shivers every time." In her low, smoky voice, the simple words of the familiar song sent shivers down my own spine. "I listen to them a lot, and I listen to this other band like them - Portishead?" She pronounced it so wrong I had to laugh, like port-a-shed. "Weird name but a great band, dark, smoky, electronic, but old-sounding. I would love to make a record like that. And you guys capture that kind of feeling on your record, that dark, late-night feeling."

"OK, I hate to say it, but I have to hand it to her. Mariko's a genius," I finally conceded. The combination of your voice, and our music... Most people would put you with a really trad accompaniment, because of your country background, but this... this could be something really special. Like Unfinished Sympathy special."

"What have you got against Mariko?" Adie asked cautiously. "Has Thom been talking shit about her again?"

"No, it's just..." I balked, casting a glance towards Cherry, and changed my mind.

"What?" demanded Adie, in his tough little brother voice.

"Did you... in Japan...?" I asked cautiously, trying not to let Cherry catch on.

But Cherry was sharp as a tack, gasping and looking back and forth between us, catching my meaning in an instant. "Omigod! Adie! You and Mariko... for real?"

Adie squirmed, then confessed. "No. Not for real. I got really drunk in Japan, and I tried it on, but she shut me down sharpish."

"Omigod," Cherry repeated, pursing her lips to suck down more margarita. "You've got bigger balls than I thought."

"What?" he sputtered, but she just laughed and emptied her glass.

"Can we get another pitcher now, or do we have to wait for Adie's ballbusting girlfriend?" she teased.

"Look, she's not my girlfriend," Adie insisted, glaring at Cherry. The two of them were about the same age, but they both seemed somehow much, much younger when they were together, like they were nursery kids. And that made me feel like an old woman.

"Can you go buy it, Lucy?" Cherry asked, blinking her innocently wide eyes at me. "I don't have any ID on me."

"Alright." I wandered off to source another pitcher of booze, and when I returned, Adie was on his phone.

"Text from Mariko, she's on her way. Wanted to know how we were getting on. I told her we were all totally into it." He glanced up, looking around the table. "Am I right? We are totally gonna do this, right?"

"Yes," I agreed.

"Well cool!" Cherry announced, flipping her sunglasses back down onto her face as she leaned back and grinned. "Ah, shit, hang on, wait!" And suddenly she was off again, up and bouncing down the beach, chasing a man who was selling children's balloons. "I want me one of those!"

But I took advantage of the break in the whirlwind of Cherry's conversation to turn to Adie, grinning as he watched her race down the beach. "Hey. Adie. You and me, are we OK?"

"Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't we be?" Ah, the fickleness of youth.

"You kinda weren't speaking to me, when you left Japan," I ventured, almost afraid to remind him for fear of bringing all that badness back up again.

"Oh. Yeah." He shrugged, twitching his shoulders awkwardly. "I dunno. It just did my head in, you and Thom." He paused, sipping at his drink. "You still together?"

"Yes."

"You love him? I mean, really. The man, not just the pop star thing."

"I really love him. This isn't just a casual thing or a groupie thing, we're really into each other. I care about him. For real."

"Do you still care about me?" As he took his sunglasses off, the newfound LA glamour seemed to rub off like a fake tan, and I saw the little-boy vulnerability underneath. His mouth was a grim line, his lips tight, taut. "And the band, and shit?"

"Adie, I love you like the little brother I never had. No more, no less." Reaching out, I took his hand in mine and patted it gently. "Lovers may come and go, but family? Family is forever."

He grinned, his lips peeling back from his teeth with genuine happiness. "I'm glad. Coz, like, I tried writing a song without you."

"Oh yeah?' I bristled, despite myself.

"Didn't work. I'm rubbish without you. I've never been any good at writing hooks and shit. Like, I know how to make those wee-ooh, out-there crazy sounds. And I know how to make a track swagger, like you can't help but dance to it. But writing the riffs? Writing those bubblegun choons that just stick in your head... I can't do that. That's your magic. I need you."

I felt my face flooding with relief. Everything was back to normal again. Me and Adie, we were going to be fine. "I need you too, Lil Bro. Me and you, we're a team. Nothing is going to take that away from us. Not Thom, not no one."

"I am so glad." And then he wrestled his hand back from me, as Cherry came sauntering up the beach with a balloon on a stick.

"Check it out, I got a Cruella De Ville balloon!" she called as she settled back into the picnic table. "I was obsessed with that movie when I was a kid - she was my total style icon. I wanted to have Dalmatian spots on everything."

"Oh come on, Cherry, you're supposed to identify with the dogs in that film, not the villainess," I laughed.

Cherry's face grew suddenly very serious. "I always identify with the villainess. In every film. Always. Being tragic and evil is just so much more stylish. And they always have such killer eyebrows."

I couldn't help it, I burst out giggling at this innocent looking farmgirl talking about being tragic and evil. "We're gonna get along just fine, I think, Cherry. Just fine."


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thom meets up with Lucy and Adie in LA, worlds collide.
> 
> Content warning for racist language, and threats of racially motivated violence.

I had never written songs so quickly, but the three of us just gelled. I only stayed at the posh hotel on Sunset Boulevard for one night, then Mariko moved all three of us to a rented house in Silverlake. Although I'd hoped that if we were going to be in California, we might be closer to the beach, I loved the slightly weird, arty neighbourhood, where wealthy young hipsters rubbed up against old hippies. Our house was an anonymous late 60s bungalow, but most crucially, it had a swimming pool, which none of us were ever very far from. The neighbours were an odd bunch, a very granola older couple on one side, and a strange young man who wandered around in 19th Century clothes like an old-fashoined cowboy on the other. Adie and Cherry made friends with the cowboy across the back fence, as he seemed to be growing a very suspicious looking bush in his garden, and the three of them were soon stoned almost all the time. I didn't feel much like smoking - the steady sun made me sleepy enough as it was. But my weakness was for mangoes and avocados and papayas and passionfruit and all the crazy hot-weather fruit that was so expensive back in England.

Despite the lax atmosphere, we worked, and hard, often staying up late into the night to finish songs off. Although I'd been suspicious that Cherry might turn out to be one of those "change a word, take a third" types, she actually participated actively in the writing process. Sometimes Adie would extemporise a beat, and she'd just spin nonsense syllables over the top until she found a hook. Other times she and I would sit at the Roland keyboard in the little sun room overlooking the pool, and she'd tell me stories about her life, and I'd set them to music, polishing up the words to fit the meter and making them rhyme and aliterate prettily as we went along.

The Cowboy would come round occasionally, bringing with him funny old vinyl, show tunes and jazz standards, to play on our record player. Adie got obsessed with the instrumentation of old 40s and 50s soundtracks, cutting up bits of swing horns and big band drumkits and sprinkling them through our music. The Cowboy laughed when he heard our songs, and went back and found an old record of Hawaiian guitar which we sampled gleefully for a crazy surf tune that made Cherry whoop like a Texan and start singing about rounding up all the cowboys in Silverlake.

In a matter of days, the album was already coming together - we had four songs fully written already, and another half dozen on the go. It had that old-fashioned smoky vibe that Cherry loved, but it was somehow sunnier than Portishead or Massive Attack, a lazy Southern charm so I could almost hear the swamps and creepers in Cherry's voice. Something really special was clearly taking shape around our swimming pool. Mariko took a couple of our demos back to Capitol and returned with a triumphant grin. "We've got the go-ahead to book out Ocean Way for as long as you like, with as many engineers as you like. They've green-lighted it all the way."

I hadn't checked my email for days. In fact, I didn't even realise that I'd been completely neglecting my blackberry until it started bleating one night, from the depths of a pile of clothes in my bedroom.

"Hello?" I answered hesitantly, dragging myself away from a jam session at the piano that Cherry had insisted we hire for the house, so that she could participate more in the songwriting, picking out simple tunes on the keys.

"Hi. Lucy." Thom's voice, sounding very small, and very far away. "It's me. Remember me? Your boyfriend." A hideously awkward pause as I tried to drag myself back from songwriter mode to girlfriend mode. "I am still your boyfriend, right?"

"Of course you are, my love. How are you? How was the Festival?" I dropped to my knees and leaned against the bed, wondering how on earth I had let so many days go by without even thinking of Thom. How long had he been at Coachella? A long weekend? Or more like a week?

"It was fine." Another pregnant pause. "Did you not get any of my texts? Why have you not answered my emails?"

"I'm so... so... sorry." There was nothing else I could say. "We've been working like crazy, writing like fiends. It's... it's just been so hectic. You know how I get when I'm working on music, it's like the rest of the world just completely disappears."

"And you forgot about me, so quickly." His voice sounded so fragile.

"I didn't forget. I just..." I had forgotten. When I was sitting at a DAW with Adie, working on music, I forgot Thom, I forgot my friends, I forgot my own name and sometimes I even forgot to eat or drink for days at a time. "Look, where are you?"

"I'm in a hotel in LA. The rest of the band flew home yesterday, but I couldn't... I... I just didn't want to leave you. I knew you were here; Nigel said he'd seen you."

"What are you doing in a hotel? Come out to the house!" I insisted.

"Where? What house?"

"Me and Adie and Cherry, we have a house out in Silverlake. It's brilliant. You'll love it. Come out here now, I can't wait for you to see it."

"Another band house," laughed Thom, the fear draining out of his voice as he realised he was still included in my plans.

"Yeah, it's like a posh version of Interstep Towers, with a swimming pool and palm trees in the garden and Cherry serves mint juleps on the veranda every evening at 6, like a proper Southern lady. Silverlake is so fucking weird - it's a bit like Hackney, full of artists pretending to be crazy people, and crazy people pretending to be artists. But it's really fun - Adie has been out DJ-ing in a couple of local bars and actually got recognised. That tickled him, so he likes Silverlake a lot now." I babbled nervously at him, trying to give him a sense of what my days without him had been like.

"Where is Silverlake? I don't even know where anything in LA is, except the Chateau Marmont and Nigel's studio and the Capitol Records building. Shit, I don't even have a car, I'll have to get a taxi."

"No, you just stay there. Cherry has a car, we'll come and get you."

"Do you promise? You won't just go back in the studio with Adie and forget I'm even here?"

"I won't forget. I promise. We'll leave in ten minutes. And honestly, I'm sorry, Thom. We left it open when you went to Coachella, we didn't talk about what we'd do when you came back. I'm sorry if we... if we crossed wires or lost the signal. You're here now and that's what matters," I told him guiltily.

"It's OK. You're right. I should have said when I'd be back, before I left. But I'll see you soon, right?"

"See you soon."

As I hung up, I looked through the memory of the phone. Half a dozen text messages, two emails and three missed calls, all from Thom.

 

> the desert here is so beautiful, i wish you could see it, mountains that glow the colour of your skin in the hazy afternoon.

 

> i miss you so much, i can't stop thinking about ur lips. i close my eyes and i just see them before me like ripe fruit waiting to be bitten into & kissed.

 

> where are u? i guess u don't have reception, i can't get through on the phone. i'll try sending u an email, but wait for me in l.a. i'll come and find you after my band have gone home.

 

> i think about you all the time. but especially in the mornings, when i wake & ur not here in my arms. i miss u so much, the smell of ur hair, that coconut lotion u use, the softness of ur skin.

 

> i'll be back in l.a. tomorrow. i'm starting to get worried. i wondered if maybe u went home, but i emailed kieran and he hasn't seen u. u must be in l.a. wait for me, my love. i'm coming for u.

 

> i'm here. mariko says ur here but there's no landline where ur staying. please call me when you get this. or I'll just keep trying on your mobile. i love u, ok? do u still love me?

 

I stared forlornly at the phone. How could I have missed those beautiful messages? But perhaps it was for the best that I had. Would I have been able to concentrate on songwriting if I'd had those sentiments echoing through my head? Or would it have made me work harder, made me throw more of my heart and soul and emotion into the songs we were working out with Cherry?

And at the end of the string of messages and emails from Thom, there was an email from Kieran, just a few lines to say that Thom was looking for me, that I was welcome to come back and stay with him - and a little note to say that he'd built another platform bed, this one with a little office and desk underneath - but just to let him know when he should expect me. I took a deep breath and emailed him back, saying thanks for the message, but that Thom had found me, and that we were going to be spending some time in LA. I told him I didn't know when I would be back in London, apologised for my vagueness, and I said I wouldn't mind if he rented out his spare room, since I was being so damn flaky, but I really didn't know when I'd be home. " _The lives of young persons are like ships_ ," came to me, a line from some novel I'd once read. " _They do not choose their destinations_." And maybe not even rock stars, from the way my life was heading.

I wandered back into the living/rehearsing room, but found that Adie and Cherry had gone. Luckily I tramped through into the kitchen and caught them before they opened the afternoon's bottle of wine. "Nope, come on, kids, we're going for a drive."

"Ooh! Where are we going?" asked Cherry, as excited as a puppy that had been offered a walk.

I shifted my weight nervously from one foot to the other as I considered how to break it to Adie. "Um... Thom's in town. Can he stay here or do you want me to go to the hotel?"

Adie frowned at first, but then he relented and shrugged, twisting his face into an approximation of a smile. "You do what you like."

"Who's Thom?" asked Cherry innocently. "Is that who we're going to see?"

"Thom is Lucy's... lay," Adie drawled.

"Your boyfriend?" Cherry burbled excitedly. "I didn't know you had a boyfriend, Lucy. Is he English? Oh, you're so lucky, I'd love an English boyfriend."

"Yes, my boyfriend." I cast an evil glare at Adie. "If you drive me in to LA to pick him up, I'll introduce you. Adie can stay here and sulk if he prefers."

"Alright, I'm coming," Adie grumbled. "He can stay here if you want. If Cherry doesn't mind. And if he doesn't get in the way of our work."

"Yay! More guests! This is so exciting." Cherry had already put the wine away and was bouncing her way out to the car. Adie sulked on the drive over, but Cherry talked almost incessantly, spinning us all a fairy tale of her favourite subject - how great it would be when the three of us had a number one record. It was hard to be anxious or angry or anything else around Cherry except caught up in her expansive optimism, and Adie and I were soon both drawn into her fantasies.

 

The Chateau Marmont was like another world - a movie star world of make believe that dominated the neighbourhood as if it were an actual castle, but Cherry grinned as she pulled up and sailed into the parking lot, as if we already belonged here, just another part of her pop star fantasies. Yet as we climbed out of the car and tried to make our way into the lobby, our way was blocked by a concierge in a uniform.

"I'm sorry, folks, it's guests only."

"We're visiting a guest," I tried to explain, but the concierge blocked our way.

"Yeah, I don't think so. Clear out or I'll call security."

I looked at him, aghast, then looked back at Adie and Cherry. OK, they looked a bit scruffy in their cut-off shorts and vests, and Cherry was wearing those ridiculous cowboy boots with fishnet tights, but it was hardly out of place for LA in May. I shrugged and tried to walk around the concierge, but he whistled, and a security guard in a quasi-military uniform appeared and tried to grab me by the shoulders. "What the fuck?" I hissed, dancing out of his grasp and glaring at him with all the outraged dignity I could muster.

"You having trouble with these coons, Larry?" the security guard drawled, his hand twitching towards the gun on his belt as he looked from me to Adie. I stepped back as if I'd been slapped. In 29 years in England, I'd been called names, followed round stores, patronised by ICA members, stop and searched by the cops in Brixton, and even spat at once or twice by crazy guys outside tube stations, all the microaggressions of race in England. But I had never in my life been forbidden entry to anywhere on account of my skin colour. LA, California, the American Dream - it was all suddenly starting to look a lot less like Paradise, from the wrong end of a revolver.

Adie was staring at the man with a look of pure hatred that might have spilled over into imminent violence if it wasn't for the Smith and Wesson dangling at the man's belt, but Cherry just looked surprised, aghast that this really could be happening, in California, in 2004.

"Look," she told the men, pulling herself up to her full height. "We really do have a friend in there, who is waiting for us, and you had better let us through," she insisted, with all the white-girl pride she could muster.

But the security guard with the gun just laughed at her. "I bet you do. And I bet if I rang the LAPD you have a rap sheet for solicitation as long as my arm. You're not comin' in, sweetheart."

"Solicitation?" shrieked Cherry. "You think I'm a hooker? You fucking pig!" She would have launched herself at the man, all outraged honour, but Adie pulled her back, his eyes still locked on that Smith and Wesson. It still freaked both of us out that police, security guards, even random strangers, all went about armed in America, but the idea that this racist arsehole was packing heat, that was too scary to even contemplate.

I walked away, just out of reach, and pulled out my phone, then dialled Thom's number. "Lucy," he greeted, his voice humming with happiness. "Where are you? Are you lost?"

"Thom, please can you just pack your bag, and come down here, and check out. We need to go. Now," I insisted, as calmly as I could, with a bigot packing a .45 calibre handgun only a few yards away.

"What's wrong?"

"Please, just trust me on this one. Come quickly. A security guard is giving us hassle. He doesn't want us to come in, because we're black." It sounded so absurd to say it aloud, I was almost afraid Thom would not believe me.

"That's ridiculous," Thom sputtered, but the guard shouted again, so loud that Thom had to have heard him over the phone.

"It's not cause you're n****rs, sweetheart," the concierge snorted, his moustache twitching with disgust. "It's because there's no way I'm letting a pimp and two hookers walk in on my watch, in broad daylight. Now clear off before I call the vice squad."

"I'm afraid there might be trouble if we tried to come in," I explained, barely able to believe what I'd just heard, feeling like I'd just been slapped in the face. I had always thought that America was supposed to be better than England about this shit. Maybe it just looked that way on the telly.

"I'll be right down." Thom's voice was taut with fury.

It seemed to be an eternity, but it couldn't have been more than about ten minutes. We hung back, lurking by the car, though Cherry's beat-up 4x4 surely didn't do us any favours, as the security guard and concierge discussed calling the police or a tow-truck from the parking violations department. But finally, Thom appeared at the door to the hotel, dragging his suitcase, with a very flustered hotel manager flapping only a few feet behind.

"Look, Mr Yorke, please accept our sincerest apologies..." the manager bleated, but Thom's face was a study in cold fury.

"Which one was it who said that?" he demanded.

"The cunt with the moustache," Adie pointed out. "And the fat one in the uniform."

"Were you racially abusing my friends?" Thom confronted the pair, suddenly flustered by the appearance of our very real and very angry friend, so closely accompanied by the management.

"No, sir, not at all," moustache blustered, looking suddenly very cowed by a rock star of Thom's status.

"I heard him. He called them names I'm not going to repeat, and he called me a hooker," Cherry insisted.

"We are musicians," I said quietly, with what I hoped was dignity, though I still felt completely shaken. "We came to see a friend who was staying here, not to be abused by this... the likes of this."

"Look, Miss," the manager tried to protest, addressing his supplications to me. "We have a very long and distinguished reputation for catering to performers and recording artists of all races. Jimi Hendrix, Diana Ross, Prince, Whitney Houston, Biggie Smalls, Beyonce Knowles... these are only a few of the many distinguished guests to have stayed with us. Please accept our humblest apologies for this terrible mistake..."

"I want them sacked. Now," Thom insisted. I'd never seen him genuinely angry before, and it was actually quite frightening. For such a small man, he had a huge and intimidating presence, practically spitting in the face of the man with the gun.

"They're lying," protested Moustache, his piggie little eyes bulging at me. "I asked them to leave as they didn't meet the dress code. No flip-flops." He pointed at Adie's feet, and for a second, I thought that the manager was going to believe him, even as Adie started to sputter with indignation.

"What do you expect from a coloured boy," sneered the one in the uniform. "They're always trying to play the race card when things don't go their way."

The manager looked back and forth between Thom, us, and the security guard, now almost cowering behind the concierge, despite his gun. "Get your things. Please go. The pink slip will be in the post tomorrow." The dirty bastard dispatched, he turned back to Thom. "Again, please accept our sincerest apologies..."

"I've been staying at this hotel for ten years now, and I've never experienced anything like this," Thom fumed.

"And you never will again. It was our mistake, and I apologise unreservedly. Radiohead are among our most treasured guests. Please, may I offer you a complimentary upgrade to a suite..."

"Thank you, but no, we're going," Thom insisted, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me off down the street.

"Psst," called Cherry. "The car's this way."

Thom stopped, turned around somewhat awkwardly, and made his way back towards the boot of the car, waiting for Cherry to open it so he could lift his suitcase inside. And then he turned towards me, and looked at me, the anger and tension still showing in his face, even through his amber sunglasses. But slowly, he sighed, and he pulled me into his arms and squeezed me so hard I almost couldn't breathe. I clung to him, not fully realising how fast and hard my heart had been beating until it was all over. But it was OK. I was badly shaken, but the worst thing had not happened. No one got hurt. We were safe. And Thom was here now, I was going to be fine.

"I am so happy to see you," Thom finally sighed as he pulled away. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss me, as his eyes drifted back down to my lips, and I remembered what he had said about the ripe fruit, and smiled, but then he seemed to remember that Adie and Cherry were watching, and pulled away, grinning sheepishly.

"You look really familiar," Cherry ventured, turning to stare at him curiously as she climbed into the car. "Are you a rock star?"

That defused Thom, as he pulled a wry smile. "Well, the management of the Marmont certainly seem to think I am."

"No, Adie, you come in the front with me," Cherry directed. "Let the lovebirds get in the back." But she continued to study Thom carefully in the rear-view mirror, even as we drove off back the way we had come. Our hands inched together on the seat, and as our fingers touched and hooked together, I turned and smiled at him, feeling the terror of the confrontation finally draining away. "Wait, I know who you are," she finally announced as we were stopped at a traffic light.

"Oh yeah?' Thom replied, his eyes flickering off mine and back to hers for a moment. I waited for the wince of recognition, but it didn't come.

"You're from that band. That big English band that played here last fall." A pause, as fear flickered momentarily across Thom's face. "You're in Coldplay, aren't you?"

The look of shock on Thom's face was priceless, even as Adie burst out laughing in the front seat. But finally Thom recovered enough to smile wickedly and wink at me. "Yup, that's right. I play bass in Coldplay."

That provoked another stream of laughter from Adie, but Cherry was nonplussed. "See, you guys are all laughing at me because you think I'm some stupid American doesn't know any English music or famous English stars, but I'm not as dumb as that security guard. I know a rock star when I see one."

The laughter diffused the tension, as Thom wrapped his arm gently around my shoulders and pulled me towards him. It felt so good to slump back against him and lay my head against the familiar slab of his chest. The feel of him against me, the soft leather of his jacket, the scent of his hairwax, I didn't realise how much I'd actually missed him until he was back beside me again. "Are you alright?" he asked in a low voice, rubbing his face against my hair and inhaling deeply. He seemed to love the smell of my coconut conditioner, sniffing at me like an animal reassuring itself with the smell of its mate.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was the gun that scared me, not what he said."

"I never get used to it, no matter how much time I spend here. Especially the way they seem to think it makes them feel safer - it just makes me terrified."

"Do people not carry guns in England?" Cherry asked curiously.

"No," insisted Thom, sounding slightly horrified at the question.

"What about the cops?"

"No, not even the cops. It's barbaric."

"Even your cops don't have guns?" Cherry whistled. "Wow, they must be bad-asses, if they go fight crime without so much as a gun. Don't people just kill each other all the time?"

"They kill each other a lot less then they do here, actually." Thom bristled.

"So what do people do if they want to go hunting?" Cherry persisted.

That really got Thom's goat as he twitched defensively. "Well, people in England go hunting on horseback. With dogs. There's a campaign to outlaw it, though."

"Hunting. On horseback. With dogs, and no guns. How do you eat a deer if a dog has torn it to pieces?"

"Well, they don't hunt with dogs for food. They do it for, well, tradition, I guess. It's not like I approve." Thom was frowning now he appeared to be losing the argument.

"Just for fun, huh? And you say we're barbaric for just shooting animals we're going to eat?"

"I'm a vegetarian," Thom whimpered, by way of protest.

"Have you ever gone hunting?" Adie asked, wide-eyed.

"Sure. It was how we got enough meat to get through the winter when we were kids in Kentucky. We had deer-meat for Christmas dinner, every year. It was really tasty."

"You've shot a gun." Adie was impressed, but Thom's upper lip curled back in revulsion.

"Course I have. I had two guns when I was 15, one just for target practice, the other for hunting. I was really good, I won a couple of prizes at the County Fair," she announced proudly.

"You still got 'em? The guns, not the prizes, I mean."

"Nah, sold 'em a while back. Needed the money."

"Could you teach me? To shoot?"

"You could never get a permit, you're a Limey," Cherry laughed, and Adie looked crestfallen. "We could get some bee-bee guns to practice with, though. You can buy those at Walmart."

"Alright." Adie grinned at her soppily and nodded.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thom finally agrees to break up with his girlfriend to be with Lucy.
> 
> And through Adie, they meet some soon-to-be-famous friends in LA.

By the next afternoon, there were a couple of targets painted on the brick wall at the back of the garden, now peppered as if with buckshot, but Adie, Cherry and the Cowboy were having more fun shooting beer cans off the top of the wall. Thom scowled at them from the kitchen, too scared to even go out to the swimming pool when they were firing.

"Guns in the house, I don't like it," he fumed quietly.

"They're just kids, they'll get bored of it in a day or two," I sighed, kissing him softly on the bottom of his ear, though I had to admit, it both scared the shit out of me, and made me feel slightly safer, that if any racist security guards tried it on with us now, Adie, at least, could _shoot back_.

Thom stalked through into the living/rehearsal room, casting his eye about at the piano with its abandoned sheet music, the laptops, the synth and the mixing desk. "I thought you said you were getting a lot of work done. You don't look very busy."

"Well, we were before you got here," I huffed defensively.

"So it's my fault now." He cast a defiant glance at me, his glaring left eye making him look a lot more angry than his soft voice suggested.

"No." I padded after him, trying to wrap my arm around him, but he shrugged me off. Something had changed, and not just in the band. We hadn't made love the night before, and that worried me. Of course it was probably just nerves, after a tense day, and then too much wine at dinner. And then lying in bed at night, Thom said that he could hear Adie and Cherry laughing in the room next door, and that had put him off, so in the end, we'd just fallen asleep holding each other. But I spent the next day feeling disjointed, disconnected, and unsure of his affection. I didn't mean to be quite so clingy, but it wasn't until Adie, Cherry and the Cowboy all adjourned to a bar over in Silverlake proper to listen to some DJ that we finally got any time alone to ourselves. And it wasn't until Thom finally clenched against me, spent, kissing my sweaty shoulders and whispering that he loved me, that I felt completely reassured by his presence again.

"Are _you_ OK?" I asked as he pulled out of me, disposed of the condom, then slumped back against the pillow, rubbing his eyes with his balled-up fists.

"Yeah, I'm just... I've got a lot to think about. A lot of heavy decisions to make."

"About the band? You still haven't signed?"

He shook his head slowly, as if it were a heavy weight. "We voted to take a year off, completely. Just off. No touring, no recording, no gigs, no nothing." He reached around, found the drink he'd abandoned earlier when we started to screw around, and took a nervous gulp, wetting his throat. "It's kind of scary, actually. I've been looking forward to this break for so long, but now it's actually here... I feel so lost. It's like I look into the future and all I see is this kind of grey mist."

"None of us know what the future holds, until we get there. I mean, if you asked me, a year ago, what I thought I'd be doing in a year's time - hanging out in a house in LA, writing a pop album... nah, I wouldn't even have dreamed it."

Rolling over towards me, he picked idly at my hair, moving the braids out of his way into some kind of complex arrangement. He seemed to love playing with my hair, endlessly fascinated by the braids. "You're starting to get proper dreads."

"I know. I need Kara to come out and fix my bloody hair."

"No, it's cute. It suits you. Looks good on you." He smiled warmly, and kissed the tip of my nose. I liked this boyfriend-Thom best, the warm, snuggly, affectionate one, not the distracted and tense one. "It's just been a lot, all happening at once. My band. Your band suddenly becoming this huge thing. Me and you, getting together. Me... breaking up with... my girlfriend." He never said her name in front of me, though if this was out of respect for me, or for her, I didn't know.

I didn't know why it came as a surprise, either, but it was still a kind of a shock, a little shudder that went through my chest like a physical jolt. "You really ended it. You broke up with her. What did you tell her?" Had he told her about me, that was what I wanted to know. But who was I to talk? Had I told Jack about him? I hadn't needed to.

"I told her I wasn't coming home. That I was staying in California."

"And what did she say?"

He shrugged and reached for his drink again. "She said she didn't mind, that she was going to stay an extra semester in Italy to get her degree done. I told her no, she didn't get it. That I wasn't coming home, ever again. She said, right, if I felt so strongly about it, she could fly out to California and talk about it. I said that wasn't a good idea. She said fine, OK, she'd do her best to submit as soon as she was able - and kind of cursed me for fucking up her life when she was close to finishing her degree - I felt like a right bastard for that, but... She said the PhD came first. That she had spent so much time waiting for me going off on tour around the world, that I owed her the time to finish her PhD, and we'd talk properly when she was through. And I guess that we'll sort it out then. The final split. But that all feels so up in the air, now, when I wanted it to be final. When I wanted it to be over, to begin again. With you."

I ran my fingers over his face, tracing the outline of his nose, his cheekbones, his lips. There was a part of me that actually really sympathised with her. I had learned the hard way over the past year, what it was like to be in love with a man whose work took him away, out of my life, for months at a time. It seemed unfair not to allow her the same freedom, to take a year off to go to Italy and finish her degree. But at the same time, dammit, it wasn't her relationship I was invested in, it was mine. "Look, you've ended it. You've done what you needed to do. That's all you can do."

He caught my hand and trapped it between his, kissing my fingertips gently. "Has your divorce from Jack come through?"

"No. Court date's not for months."

"I want it all to be over. So we can be together properly, and not skulking around like we have to hide."

"We can be together properly now. It doesn't matter who sees us here. We're thousands of miles away from my ex-husband, and your ex-girlfriend. This is another country. Another world."

"I know. But not in a house like this, we can't."

"Why not?"

"Dunno. It's a bit like being back at school. People around all the time, no privacy. I want you to myself. Not sharing you with half a dozen housemates."

"It's only two housemates. The Cowboy doesn't live here. It's less people than when we were on tour with Radiohead. And it's only till the album is written."

"And recorded. I know you, you are going to want to be in that studio, tweaking away up until the last minute." He smiled with the warmth of easy intimacy, and I was going to protest that I was not that much of a perfectionist, then simply smiled back helplessly when I realised he knew me better than I knew myself.

Somewhere in the house, a door banged, the clatter of noise as several people entered the house. "Luce? Thom? You lot still here? Come out, come out wherever you are!"

"Hush y'all, they're probably fucking. Don't interrupt them."

"That's some mouth you got on you, little lady." The Cowboy, his voice thick with whisky.

Thom rolled his eyes and made a face at me. "Did you lock the door?" I asked, and he nodded. "I'm starting to see your point."

"Leave them alone, they're in love," sighed Cherry. At least someone recognised that.

"Who are Luce and Thom?" asked an unfamiliar voice, male, American.

"Luce is Lucy. My partner - as in Axiom from Axiom N Atom." Oh, way to spill the beans to some total random stranger, Adie.

"And Thom is her boyfriend, the bassist from Coldplay."

Thom and I both creased up at that "You are going to live to regret that quip."

"No I'm not, it's hilarious."

"What if she credits you like that, on the album?"

"I'm not on the album, am I?"

"You'll probably be in the Thank Yous. I can just see it now. Thanks to Thommy Y from Coldplay. What will Chris Martin say when he finds out you're in his band now?" 

"He'll probably wank himself silly." He started to giggle again, but I put my finger to his lips as footsteps echoed down the hall to the bedrooms then retreated again.

"I don't think there's anyone in. Can I put some records on?" It was the unfamiliar man again.

"Yeah, go ahead Steve." It wasn't our Steve, Interstep Steve, it was another Steve, an American Steve who clearly liked jazz quite a lot from the soft music that started to seep out of the living room speakers.

"We should probably put our clothes back on and go out and say hello at least," I suggested.

"Do we have to? I'm rather enjoying just lying here looking at you." Even past midnight, it was still so hot that the only way to be comfortable was to lie close to each other, not quite touching, but completely naked. A wicked smile curled his lips wolfishly. And this time I didn't have to hold back. Reaching down, I cupped one of my breasts and offered it to him, grinning with delight as he bent down and took it in his mouth, teasing my nipple to attention then rubbing his face back and forth between them.

And abruptly we were interrupted by a rain of knocks on the door and Adie's insistent voice. "You two are in there, I know you are. Lucy's keys are on the hook by the door. So stop fucking, put your clothes on and say hello. We got company."

"I swear to god, tomorrow I am looking for a new house, just for the two of us. And a house on the beach, where we can see the sea, just like I always promised you," Thom muttered as he let go of my nipple.

Still, we found trousers, t-shirts, and emerged, blinking sleepily, into the light of the living room to find a whole party going on to the accompaniment of Steve's jazz records. This Steve was a tall, broad-shouldered, absolutely enormous slab of a man with a huge, slightly shy but disarming smile that lit up his face like the sun. He had a smaller, skinny friend with dreadlocks who was deep in conversation with the Cowboy, and between the two of them, it seemed like they had brought back half the neighbourhood with them. They all seemed so young to me, just kids really, barely out of school - 20 or 21 - but these Americans seemed so self assured and confident compared to the twitchy, nervous lads in London. They had a posse of girls, for a start, pretty women who hung around the kitchen with Cherry. And the American boys, they were bold, openly coming on to the girls, complimenting them or calling them out, even as the girls were laughing and drinking and trying to improvise swimming costumes so they could go in our pool. Cherry had turned on the coloured lights she'd strung around the balcony so the water looked cool and inviting compared to the heat of the house.

But Steve looked carefully at Thom, as if considering him. "We've met before, haven't we?"

"You've probably seen him on TV," Cherry announced. "I told you, he's in Coldplay. They're real famous in England."

"Coldplay." Steve looked doubtful. "Riiiiiiight." Then suddenly he snapped his fingers. "You're mates with Nigel Godrich, aren't you? The two of you came to one our sets at Low End Theory, last year some time."

"Yes!" Thom beamed with recognition. "You're... you were called Lotus Flower, or something like that?"

"Flying Lotus," Steve supplied. "You remember my housemate Teebs?" He pointed to the young man with the dreadlocks. "And obviously Daedelus you already know." He pointed to the Cowboy. I'd never ever thought of him having a name, let alone such an odd one, though it seemed to suit someone dressed in that old-fashioned garb of his. "We've been trying to get a record label going, the three of us. Put out some of that crazy music you heard at the club last time."

"Somehow I have had this conversation before, and recently," I laughed, helping myself to a beer. "And with another young man named Steve, oddly enough. And he actually has managed to do a pretty job of getting Interstep Records off the ground."

"Of course!" American Steve grinned broadly. "You're Axiom N Atom, no wonder you know Interstep Records. Do you know how we can get in touch with them? We'd love to put out some of their records over here. Maybe do an exchange, get some remixes going between our artists and theirs?"

"They'd be well up for that!" Adie insisted, digging in his blackberry to find English Steve's email and phone number.

"We'd love if we could get one of your remixes, guys. Guy and gals, rather."

"And we'd love to do one," Adie gushed right back. "Can we swap? We'll do one for you if you do one for us. With that crazy off-kilter jazz drumming all over it." Clearly this Lotus character had impressed Adie a lot if he were this keen to get an exchange going.

I nudged Thom gently with my elbow, whispering under my breath. "And you said going to LA to make this record would destroy all our cred. Looks like it's boosted it to me."

"Alright, you win," he conceded. "But you have got to hear him spin when he does the whole Fly-Lo thing. He is amazing. Absolutely incredible."

"You could have come along. But no, you two were too busy fucking," Adie teased.

Steve looked back and forth between Thom and me, then grinned again shyly, bowing slightly towards me like a gentleman paying his respects. "Don't sweat it. We'll do other gigs. Spending quality time with a beautiful woman... that's a privilege that always wins out over clubbing in my book."

I blushed slightly, but Thom stood up just a little bit straighter. Clearly he was flattered by the idea that the new man found his girlfriend attractive. "You could give us a tune," Thom suggested, grinning coyly at his new friend before pointing towards the piano. The look in his eyes was positively soppy. This guy had to be absolutely amazing the way that all the musicians in the room were deferring to him.

"For real? The neighbours won't complain?" He gave a humble little shrug, but clearly the itch to be playing won out over the bashfulness.

"I am the neighbours, and I'm sitting right here," pointed out The Cowboy.

"Well, alright." Picking his huge body off the sofa, he moved over towards Cherry's piano and sat down. I thought he would have taken the record off, but instead he leaned towards the speaker, swaying slightly as if feeling for the beat. And then he started to play. Softly at first, following the tune of the song quite closely, then more and more confidently, leaving the melody behind and extemporising as if he were jamming along with the band on the record. Thom, delighted, moved over toward the piano and sat down at the bench next to him, Steve scooting over slightly to make room. He picked out a few notes, tentatively, as if teasing Steve, and the younger man flicked a giant paw up towards him, hitting a few higher notes, then backed away, as the two of them played a cat and mouse game on the keyboard. He really was incredibly good, as if he were playing with four hands to Thom's two, and as the record played out, he carried on extemporising on the same theme, his whole body swaying with the music.

And then Thom opened his mouth, and started to sing. It was an old standard, one I recognised as soon as he started to sing the melody. " _There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far, very far over land and sea. A little shy... and sad of eye._ " Thom turned and winked at this. " _But very wise was he. And then one day, a magic day, he passed my way, and while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me..._ "

We all joined in for the chorus, Steve in a deep rumbling bass, Cherry harmonising sweetly underneath me, and Thom sailing over the top. " _The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return._ " I reached over and I hugged Cherry, feeling just so overwhelmed with emotion, surrounded by friends new and old. And when I looked up, Thom and Steve were grinning each other soppily, like two old souls who had just wordlessly decided to be friends.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adie and Cherry conspire to bring some of the old Loophole kids onboard for their grand new project.
> 
> And Lucy and Thom decide to get a place of their own.

In the bathroom the next morning, I stared at my birth control pillpack as I popped open the last of the hormonal pills, and realised that it was time to break open the next pack, unless I wanted my life interrupted by a massive, horrible flow of a period. Yeah, I knew it was supposed to be bad in some way to skip my periods and just carry on taking them for months at a time, but fuck that - I was sick of the mess and inconvenience of my periods, which had never been very regular to start with. Still, opening the second pack meant a problem. It was only by some stroke of luck that I'd thought to bring the second pack, giving me an extra month's grace period, overpacking as usual, in case we got shipwrecked and stranded on a desert island with no NHS chemists or something. But once that was gone, I was out of birth control, and with my relationship with Thom so new and unsettled, that was a bad idea.

I considered asking Cherry if she knew any cheap American clinics that were willing to reissue a prescription if I could provide the name of my current pills. But then, I decided that opened up a level of intimacy with Cherry that I wasn't sure I wanted to have. I liked Cherry, she was a huge personality and a lot of fun, but I didn't really want to talk about sex or reproduction with her. She just seemed like one of those Americans that would be weird about it - especially given how she'd described herself growing up 'in the Bible Belt.' But instead, that left a different, but no less awkward conversation to be had - but at least this one would be via email.

 

______________________________________________

 

> Hi Kieran-
> 
> Hope you're doing well, hope Cosmo and Bob are fat and healthy and purring as ever. Having a great time out in LA, the album is coming along really well, I've got a really good feeling about this.
> 
> But look - can I ask you a really really huge favour? You can obviously say no if it's a giant hassle, or if it's embarrassing. And I will reimburse you for any costs incurred. But can you post something over to me? Like, overnight, or three day delivery at the very slowest. It's kind of urgent, and will save me a lot of money and hassle if you can.
> 
> XO, Lucy

______________________________________________

 

> Lucy!
> 
> No problem at all. I don't embarrass easily, so go ahead, lay it on me. I can even handle bras or ladies' smalls if you need me to post over anything.
> 
> The cats miss you. So do I, a bit, but I'm glad that you're having fun in LA. Send my love to Thom - in fact, love to you both.
> 
> XOXO, K

______________________________________________

 

> OK, you may regret agreeing to this, Kier, but I need you to go in my dresser. In the drawer in the top left hand corner, look underneath the scented wrapping paper, and there will be a red beaded dress. Wrapped up in that, there should be - I don't know exactly, probably four packs, or maybe five, of birth control pills. Now I need you to wrap those up securely, and maybe disguise them a bit because I don't know how legal it is to post them. But I need those pills, and I need them within the next two weeks or so. So as quickly as you possibly can, please send them.
> 
> Thanks, and Thom and I send our love in return!
> 
> L

______________________________________________

 

> Good god, Lucy, I thought it was going to be something really embarrassing! No, that's fine. They'll be in the post this afternoon, don't worry. You should have them by the weekend. XOXO, K

______________________________________________

 

> Thank you SO MUCH, Kier, you are a lifesaver. How are things back in London? And how are you? I feel like we haven't talked in ages. Hope everything is good with you.
> 
> L

______________________________________________

 

> London is good. Spring has come, even to Hackney. And I'm good. I've started seeing someone. Do you remember Ollie's ex, Jess? We've kind of got a thing going on. It's nice. Chilled. Just what I need. XO, K

______________________________________________

 

 

I stared at the screen, feeling a ripple of something odd going down my spine. Not exactly disappointment, not even sadness, but just a sense that a door that had once been open, had irrevocably closed. Well, most of all, I felt awkward that I didn't know that Jess and Ollie had even broken up. I felt so out of touch and removed from my old friends, sitting half a world away in LA. But then I smiled, and thought of what a good boyfriend Kieran would undoubtedly be, and how Jess would at least feed him well, which was ultimately the key to that boy's heart. And I felt that touch of sadness melt away.

 

______________________________________________

 

> I'm so pleased for you, Kieran. I really, truly am. I think you and Jess would make a great couple, and I hope you're deeply happy together.
> 
> Love to you both, L

______________________________________________

 

True to his word, they arrived by special delivery at the house exactly three days later. Cherry signed for the unexpectedly large box, then skipped into the house, announcing "Lucy has a secret admirer! What is this, a box of flowers or something?"

"Nothing that concerns you," I told her, taking the box from her and trying to carry it into my room.

"No, you're not squirrelling it off in private. I want to see what it is," she pouted.

"It's personal."

"All the more reason for me to want to know what it is," she giggled.

I rolled my eyes, looked about nervously to make sure that the boys were all otherwise occupied. "Fine, well, you'll be horribly disappointed," I shrugged, tearing back the corner of the box to reveal.. a flash of red fabric, covered with iridescent beads. Oh bless Kieran, he had actually sent the pills wrapped in the dress as a disguise.

"That's not nothing!" Cherry insisted, tugging at the fabric until the dress tumbled out, but magpie that she was, she was so distracted by the dress that she didn't notice the soft thump of the packs of pills falling to the floor, and I was able to palm them and shove them into the deep pockets of the combat pants - Thom's, of course - that I was wearing. "Ohmigod, Luce, this is amazing! What a stunning dress." Holding it up to herself, she did a little dance, making the beads fly out everywhere. "Can I borrow it some time?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Spoil sport," she sighed, though she did hand it back. "Probably won't fit me, anyway, you're tiny. Where on earth did you get it? Who sent it to you?"

"I told you, it's personal. It was given to me by a good friend of mine in Germany. She altered it specially to fit me - in fact, I think she may actually have made it."

"You have a friend that makes dresses like that? Go on, put it on, I'd love to see you in it. I bet you look like a million bucks."

"She makes a lot more than this," I laughed, remembering the peacock dress. "She makes these amazing burlesque costumes - in fact, she has one that has a long tail of feathers like a peacock, but has its head sticking up from her crotch like a gigantic codpiece. It's amazing and also hilarious, but also very very sexy."

"Really? Show me? Do you have any pictures?" Cherry gasped, intrigued.

"Go online, look at my MySpace, I think she's in my Top 8. I'm pretty sure she's got a load of her dresses in her photo galleries," I directed.

"Is this her? Mizz Ting? Oh... my... god..." There was a sudden sharp intake of breath behind me, as I gathered that she'd found the right page. "These are incredible! Oh my god, the bustier with the Miss Piggie faces for tits...  I love it1 Holy Shit! The squid-mermaid thing... this is the most incredible dress I've ever seen in my life..."

"That's Cthulhu, I reckon," I laughed, enjoying the look of confusion and joy and _want_ on Cherry's face. "Cthulhu... elder gods? Eldritch fear? H.P. Lovecraft? Oh, I'll have to get it out of the library for you, you'll love it, you'll eat that stuff up."

"I'll eat these clothes up, if given half the chance. Do you think we could get her? Like, have her fly over here, have her design my outfits for my videos... hell, have her design my stage show for my concerts?" Cherry never met anyone even vaguely creative that she didn't try to somehow fit into her imaginary pop star dream world.

But then I stopped and thought about it. Tingie was exactly the same - she lived in a dream world where she already was a fabulous artist and a fashion designer and in Tingie's mind, she was born to play stadiums, not the back room cabarets of Berlin sex clubs. Or, both, rather, as in her mind, they were the same thing. Tingie and Cherry might actually, on some level, be kindred souls. "Email her and ask her. Tell her you're mates with Adie and me. You never know - she has folks in LA, so she might just be willing to come out and give it a try. Though... do remember you are going to have to squeeze it past Mariko. So try and get her to tone down the initial drawings a bit."

"Fuck that," snorted Cherry, pounding away at the computer keyboard. "Mariko has been on my back, hassling me about my fucking image, trying to get me to agree to go to some awful horrible stylist or other. So I'll tell her that I've found my dream stylist, and she had just better agree to it." She looked up and smiled disarmingly, and I felt almost sorry for Mariko, knowing that this headstrong young woman was going to get her way one way or another.

To my surprise, Tingie responded almost immediately, and the pair of them set down to an excited correspondence. Cherry, fortunately, knew when to be headstrong, and when to demure to the expert - though clearly she was so in awe of Tingie's talent that she didn't even bother to hide her enthusiasm. Within about an hour, Tingie had agreed to fly out to LA towards the end of our sessions, to work on building costumes, and indeed, a whole look for Cherry, once we had finished recording, so that she had a better idea of what sound she was trying to compliment.

Cherry was even more excited than ever now, clearly drawn into Tingie's world. She ordered a couple of H.P. Lovecraft books off Amazon and lay around the pool reading them, her eyes growing round with both fear and fascination. On Tingie's suggestion, she started experimenting with more androgynous styles - in which her long, lean body looked absolutely fantastic - and talked about getting in touch with her 'inner man,' though these episodes usually took the form of late-night sessions where she would drink beer with Adie and the Cowboy, burp loudly and shoot things with her bee-bee gun. Thom stayed well out of the way when she got like that, muttering darkly. The next morning, he sat her down and tried to explain to her about how masculinity didn't have to mean mindless aggression, that she could try to be more of a sensitive new age man - like he was. Cherry listened with a bewildered face, then told him that sounded like no fun at all - that it was entirely too much like being a girl again.

At which point Thom threw up his hands and insisted that was the point - that there really wasn't that much of a difference between a man and a woman, but that the difference was culture. That being a long-haired vegan girly-man who liked poetry and thought football was vile was as much a cultural construct as being a wild-living Texan cowgirl who shot squirrels and smoked and drank Jim Beam straight out of the bottle. And then Cherry just looked at Thom as if he were completely mad, and stalked off, shaking her head and muttering something about Coldplay, leaving him on the sofa looking perplexed. And at that moment, looking at his frustrated face, I thought that I really couldn't love him any more if I tried.

Sitting down next to him, I took his hand and squeezed it gently before bringing it to my lips, kissing his stubby little nailbitten fingers. "Never mind. Some of us actually prefer long-haired vegan girly-men who like poetry and think football is vile."

At that, he smiled and raised one eyebrow mischievously in a way that made me know that face would be buried between my thighs before long. "Really."

 

\-------

 

But that was what made living in that house so much fun, the dynamic mix of personalities. And I did love that house, I loved the late nights and the parties and the mornings after, lounging in the swimming pool trying to soak away our hangovers. And I loved the stream of artists and musicians and DJs that seemed to congregate around us, as Steve and Teebs took to coming over more and more regularly, taking turns at the piano and the decks. Teebs was supposedly doing a graffiti style mural on the Cowboy's garage door, but the colours shifted and flickered across it as he seemed to change his mind every day, usually right around the time that Cherry would open the huge french doors and leave a pitcher of Bloody Marys on the picnic table, like an open invitation. It was a vibrant, fun, exciting, creatively charged place to live for the month we spent there.

But it was also killing my sex life, and, I was beginning to be afraid, it was stifling my new relationship. Thom hated having sex when anyone else was in the house. It seemed bizarre, completely out of character for a man who used to bounce offstage to drag me into closets for urgent couplings with band and crew only a few feet away. But Thom onstage, and Thom offstage, they could be such different creatures that sometimes I wondered if they were the same man at all.

It wasn't that he was ashamed of me, or even trying to hide our relationship any more. He was happy to hold hands with me, sit next to me on the sofa, draping his arm around my shoulder as he chatted with Steve about old jazz records, and was perfectly affectionate in front of my friends. And I was pleased that he got on so well with my friends, buzzing with excitement and encouragement like an elder statesman, whenever he talked to anyone about their music, where Jack would have tried to make a territorial pissing contest out of everything. 

And yet he was still funny about sex, neurotic even. If we tried to make love when my housemates were home, he would keep getting up in the middle of foreplay and checking that the bedroom door was locked. And then he would insist on putting on music, and turning it up loud enough to mask the sounds of our coupling. And even then, he seemed furtive and slightly hurried, like he was rushing ahead of himself, and never quite lost in the moment, the way that time had stopped, when we were together in Japan and Australia. I would start to worry that he didn't love me any more, that he had stopped fancying me, but then on the rare occasions that everyone would go out - Adie and Cherry going off to some cool all-night acid jazz revival club with Fly-Lo and Daedelus - the old Thom would resurface, grinning at me filthily, running a finger carelessly up the inside of my thigh, and we would attack each other like the new lovers that we still were.

It was weird, though, that we just did not go out, even though we were living in the midst of one of the most exciting cities in America, with all the bars and clubs of LA and their myriad musical delights on offer. But those nights when everyone else went clubbing, it was the only time that we actually got to be alone. And I hated to admit it to anyone, even myself, but I was slightly afraid of America. And it wasn't just the guns and the racists, though yes, that had scared the shit out of me in a way that had really cast a shadow over the rest of our stay. It was how big it was, how bright, how brash, how loud, how oversized everything was, like watching television with the volume and colour turned all the way up. (All the things, of course, that Adie loved about it.) I had never thought I would find myself craving the drab, rainy greys of London, but compared with the disorienting sound and colour and noise of LA whenever we actually left the house... well. I really did. So was it any wonder that I preferred to stay home and wallow in bed with Thom, the rare snatched hours that my bandmates were not trouping about the house? 

Not, indeed, that we got many of those, now that the Brainfeeder boys had decided to test out their DJ sets in our living room, at all hours of the day and night.

"We could always go to a hotel," Thom offered after another bout of coitus interuptus. "The Chateau Marmont does still owe me a free suite."

"I am never going back to that place so long as I live," I swore, shivering as I remembered the glint of sunlight on that racist security guard's gun.

"There are other hotels in LA," Thom shrugged, pulling the sheets up over his bare chest to hide the scraggly hair he was still slightly insecure about.

"I don't want to go to a hotel. After touring, I'm sick of hotels. I want somewhere of my own, where I can spread out, put down roots." Somewhere that wasn't full of 20-year-old boys intent on showing off their mixing skills, something that seemed equally rare in both LA and London.

"I guess I can understand that." Thom smiled patiently, nodded, then moved forward to kiss me, but we were interrupted by a plume of feedback, then the booming voice of Teebs doing a mic check over the DJ system in the room next door. It was impossible, we would never get any time or space to ourselves in this house.

So I started, grudgingly, to accept the fact that we had to find our own place.

But I would miss the Silverlake bungalow. I would miss the pool parties, with everybody fighting playfully over the two lilos. If Steve commandeered one, that was it. He was so big that he could just reach out just one almost impossibly long arm and push any swimmer away before they even got close enough to dislodge him from his plastic inflatable throne. So he would lie spreadeagled in the sun, with Cherry laughingly trying to rest a pitcher of drink on his slab of an abdomen - he made it a point of pride that no matter how cold the pitcher was, he was so rock solid he never spilled a drop. Cherry and I would usually get the other one. If Adie was splayed across it, he was light enough that we could swim underneath and tip him off, laughing as we hopped up and balanced ourselves at either end. As all the boys, of course, were far too gentlemanly to tip the two girls into the water, once we got the lilo, we generally kept it.

The only thing that would ever tempt me off was having to rub more sunscreen onto Thom's milk-white back to keep him from burning as red as a lobster in the bright California sun. He tried to do it himself the first few days, and missed a hard to reach bit of his back, and ended up with a red patch so sore and painful that he had to lie on his stomach while I massaged aloe into the skin to stop it from peeling. After that, he would sit before me like a small boy, bending his head to let me cover his entire skin with sunscreen, even acquiring a floppy-brimmed hat to keep his ears from burning. His hair, growing shaggy without the constant attentions of a stylist, was bleaching a pale gingery colour at the ends, making him look even more like a small boy, despite the sunglasses and the stripe of zinc across his nose. He did not tan - he just came out in more and more speckles. 

"I keep hoping that one day all the freckles will join up, and I'll have a proper tan, but it never seems to happen," he moaned, watching jealously as Adie and I baked blissfully from cafe au lait to chocolate in the sun. It was curious to lay our arms or legs next to one another, admiring the contrasts of the different shades of skin, but I grew to love his speckledness as much as he loved my lush brownness.

But the thing I loved most about that house was not the parties or even the pool, but the lazy atmosphere of complete submersion in creative endeavours. There wasn't even a studio, as such, like there was in Interstep Towers. The house was open plan, so it wouldn't really have been possible to set aside a space. But it was more the way that we used every corner of the house for songwriting. Sometimes Cherry would wake up and tell me, at the breakfast table, about a mad dream she'd had during the night, and we would sit down, right there, in the breakfast nook, and start to turn it into a song, scribbling down words and snatches of melody between our bowls of cereal and cups of tea. We wrote at least another two songs on the sheltered sun-room overlooking the pool, out of the glare of the sun, scribbling away under the christmas tree lights. We wrote at the piano, but we also wrote on the decrepit old sofa that the Cowboy had dragged onto his front lawn, watching while Teebs added another layer of blue or gold or crimson to the ever-changing murals of the garage. Cherry and Adie and I just gelled, perfectly, as a team, an interlocking unit, even with all the other musicians swirling around us. People collaborated all over the house - especially if Thom and Steve got on the piano - but the central core remained the three of us.

Thom watched me with languid eyes, astonished at the way I could pull songs out of the nonsense that Cherry spouted. "It's weird, watching you at work like an amanuensis. How on earth do you put your ego aside, as a songwriter, to realise someone else's visions so perfectly?" he asked me, late at night after a long songwriting session, too wound up to sleep.

"Because I don't see myself as an amanuensis, I see myself as a midwife. Cherry is the one giving birth to those ideas, I'm just there to write them down and tie them up with a nice bow and a flourish."

"But they're unmistakably your songs. You're writing the melodies, they have your touch all over them."

"Come on, Thom, you know how it works. The songs and the melodies are all already out there, I'm just writing them down. I'm not a songwriter so much as I'm an antenna. A lightning rod. I'm just wafting round Cherry with a big butterfly net."

Thom laughed and reached out, twitching his favourite dreadlock out of my face, a gesture that made me smile with affection through its sheer familiarity. "Yeah, I know. I've just always found it really hard writing with someone else. Like, Jonny and Ed can do it for me, that midwifery thing, where they take one of my song sketches and turn it into something amazing. But I've never managed to do it for someone else. I guess maybe I'm a bit jealous."

"Don't be ridiculous." I blushed slightly. "You're probably the best songwriter of your generation, why on earth should you be playing midwife for anyone else?"

"I'm not, you know," he insisted modestly, lowering his gaze. "I'm nowhere near, but it's still nice of you to say." He paused, tracing my face, the angle of my cheekbones, with his fingertips. "But I'm going to say to you the same thing I always say to Jonny. Don't get so caught up in polishing and realising someone else's songs that you forget to write your own music. Remember to follow your own muse, too."

"Trust me, I'm not. I'm not even sure they're actually that different, really. And maybe I actually like writing with other people more than I like writing by myself. It's like the difference between masturbation and sex."

He giggled a bit and leaned forward to brush his lips against mine. "I might get a bit jealous, if that's the case."

"You talk like you and I haven't written a song together," I teased, wrapping my leg around the back of his calves and pulling him towards me gently.

"I dunno. I keep hoping, since we got together..." His face was getting that soppy, sentimental look as he gazed down at my lips. "...that you might write a song about me? It's the curse of being a songwriter. I'm forever writing songs about other people, about my friends, my acquaintances, my lovers... but no one ever writes a song for me."

"How do you know I haven't?"

His eyes flickered back up to meet mine, a smile growing slowly across them. "Have you, then?"

"Half the Axiom N Atom album's about you," I confessed, feeling suddenly very exposed.

"Really."

"You never noticed the secret track - it's called Furious, like that wasn't a dead giveaway," I told him, raising my hands to touch his face, cupping his round little chin in my fingers, feeling the burr of his beard against my skin.

"I never knew it was called that. I'm kinda... eh, I'm a bit flattered. Maybe." Despite his deadpan voice, he grinned, bending his head to press his lips against the tips of my fingers. "I always loved that track."

I moved closer and kissed him, twining my fingers in his hair as we moved together, our bodies yearning towards one another. He was hard against my belly, and I could feel his cock straining towards me, so I pulled tighter towards him, feeling him trying to move lower, between my thighs. I was so ready for him, so ready for him to just roll me over and climb on top of me, pushing his way between my legs and rubbing until he got inside me...

But abruptly, there was the clatter of footsteps outside our bedroom door, and the scrape of chairs being pulled back, snatches of conversation as Adie and Cherry came in from smoking outside with the Cowboy. Thom clenched up, like he had been caught doing something wrong - and my body stiffened in response, in fear that he would withdraw from me, turn away and reject me.

His head pulled away from me, his eyes clouded with anxiety. "Is the door locked?" he asked, desperately.

"Yes, Thom, we always lock the door," I assured him, but it was no good. He was already up and out of bed, padding across the floor to check, prodding the bolt and rattling the door handle just to check. And as he made his way back across to bed, I couldn't help but see that he had lost the mood, completely deflated.

"I am so, so sorry," he sighed, looking down at his wilted cock, then back up at me with wounded eyes. "Do you want me to go down on you?" he offered.

"Alright," I said quietly, though I still felt guilty, even as he rubbed his beard against my thighs, the tickle raising an automatic response of lust deep in my groin. I let him part my legs as he rubbed his nose between my labia, then followed with his tongue, big, broad strokes that made the moisture rise in me like a flood. And as he pushed one finger, then two fingers inside me, I arched my back, feeling the pleasure mount as his mouth latched onto my clitoris and started to suck, working his tongue back and forth across me until I had no choice but to come, raising my hips off the bed as I panted, trying to catch my breath as the waves of orgasm broke across me. He chuckled to himself tenderly as he withdrew his fingers, licked them with genuine relish, then deposited another kiss on my still-shuddering clitoris, just to catch me with an aftershock. He knew my body so well he played me just like a musical instrument, pushing me to orgasm as if he were playing a much-loved and familiar riff. And yet, still, I felt guilty that he would not let me not reciprocate.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I begged, as he made his way back up beside me. "Can I suck you? Play with your balls? Give you a rim job?"

He shook his head quickly, almost distastefully. "There's no point. Once I've lost it, that's it."

"Come on, at least let me try," I urged, moving my head lower, brushing my mouth across his stomach, but he recoiled as if he were ticklish.

"No! Please, don't," he insisted, almost petulantly, wriggling away from me.

"I just wish there were something I could do for you," I almost cried, feeling like he was somehow disgusted with me.

"There is. You can be patient with me," he pleaded, holding up his hands between us as if he were afraid that I would attack him. And when I saw the helpless look of fear and apology in his eyes, my heart almost broke.

"I'm sorry," I sighed, reaching out my arms and pulling him towards me, crushing him against my chest, smoothing down his hair with my fingers where it stuck up in odd angles from the pressure of my thighs.

"No, I'm sorry. It'll be better when we get our own place, when I don't feel quite so much like I'm back at school. I promise."


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Thom, no longer illicit lovers, finally find peace together in a tiny house in the dunes.

It took forever to find a house, though, even after Thom hired a car to go out and look. Once Adie and Cherry and I moved our production work into the studio, he would venture out during the day to visit estate agents and scout out possible homes. The problem was, no one really wanted to take on a short term let. Even something as long as a six month let was quite rare. And the few places that seemed nice or even suitable, which were available short-term, we seemed to have no luck at all - Thom would tell the estate agent that he had to consult his partner, but by the time that I got out of the studio and turned up, the agent would tell us that we had missed it, and the place had already been let.

I grew suspicious the third time it happened, especially the way that the estate agent, a leathery-skinned white woman with dyed blonde hair, looked me up and down and wrinkled her nose. Thom told me I was being ridiculous and oversensitive, that it was just bad luck, but I couldn't help but remember the security guard at the Marmont. I had learned since then; I always put on one of the expensive designer dresses that Thom had bought me in Japan, and did my hair and makeup nicely if I had to deal with white Americans and their weird ideas about race. But it just seemed like too much of a coincidence, that three estate agents in a row, that had been happy to let to lillywhite Thom on his own, suddenly found us unacceptable as an interracial couple.

"We'll find something..." he assured me, hitting refresh on a rental property search engine page on his laptop, to see if anything had come up.

"I hope so," I muttered darkly as I opened the fridge to find that someone - probably Adie - had finished off the last of the milk without bothering to go out and replace it in time for my morning tea.

In the end, it was friends of friends that came through. One evening while he was waiting for Adie and I to finish up for the night, Thom spoke to Nigel in the recording studio across the way from ours,  and mentioned his dilemma of needing a quiet place to live. Nigel put him in touch with a band he had previously worked with, a big LA group who were about to go out on their summer tour of European festivals, and their bassist offered us the use of his "beach hut" until they returned in September.

"It's pretty bare bones," he warned us over the phone. "There is electricity from solar panels, and there is running water, but apart from that, there's little in the way of amenities, so don't expect hot tubs or anything. It is right on the beach, though. About a mile outside a little surfing village, an hour's drive out of LA - 45 minutes if you're lucky with the traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway. It's nicely secluded, but an easy commute if you're at Ocean Way."

"We'll take it," Thom said. "We're desperate at this point."

And so the next afternoon, while I was at the studio, he drove down to his pop star pal's LA townhouse to pick up the keys and pay a peppercorn rent to cover the utilities while we were there. And at the weekend, which Mariko always insisted we take off so they didn't have to pay the engineers overtime, I packed my few belongings in the back of Thom's rental car and we drove out along the coast to find our new home and start our lives together, properly, as a couple.

The journey was inauspicious - we drove past the turnoff to the village twice and only caught the tiny by-road after we went back to the nearest town to ask directions. It was easy to miss, as the highway turned away from the coast to bypass an inland lagoon behind a long, low barrier of sand. Later we found out that the locals had a bad habit of stealing any signs that the authorities put on the road, in order to keep out tourists. But when we finally found Solitas, we discovered a tiny but beautiful village, full of surfers and hippies, nestled at the base of the long, sandy spit that separated the ocean from the lagoon. We stopped to admire the fanciful psychedelic murals painted all over the sides of the village buildings, then slipped into an organic farm shop to buy supplies to see us through the next few days. Despite their sign-stealing habits, the locals seemed friendly enough, asking after our unusual accents with warm interest. 

When we said we were musicians, recording in LA, the shopkeeper told us to pop in to the local bar opposite the shop, for their open mic nights. Apparently our pop star landlord did so quite frequently, dropping in for impromptu jam sessions on old punk songs. Thom grinned slyly and said he'd think about it. We left laden with food and well-wishes, and the local policeman even offered us directions for a shortcut out to our cabin along the dunes, reassuring me that not all Americans with uniforms and guns might be terrifying racists, once you got out of central LA.

As we drove out along a potholed old road that wasn't even on Thom's map, catching glimpses of the sea between sand dunes, I was reminded oddly of the house in Wiltshire. How long ago and how far away that all seemed now, those awkward months before Thom and I had got together, the tension and the longing. Moving towards him, I squeezed his hand gently on the gearshift, then leaned over and kissed his cheek tenderly.

"What was that for?" he asked, surprised, squinting into the sunset.

"Because I'm so happy that we're together now."

"Good." He turned to grin at me, then pulled the car off the road into a driveway that had been hollowed out of a gap between sand dunes. As he switched the engine off, the silence was complete, except for the nearby swish of the waves, and the distant calls of seabirds. "We really are alone together here. Splendid isolation."

I climbed out of the car and stared at the house - if one could even call it a house. Really, it was a giant sand dune with a door in the side of it, a wall of rough, unfinished logs holding back the sand from invading the overgrown path. Thom fiddled with the keys and let us in - it was like walking into a hobbit's house in the side of a hill, dark and cool after the fierce pinkish light of the evening. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but in the half-light, it looked fairly minimal - a long, narrow living space, with a kitchenette at one end and low, lumpen furniture, unidentifiable in the gloom. I couldn't even tell if there was a separate bedroom, but what I was most disappointed by was the distinct lack of a view. Thom found a switch and flicked the lights on, but it was dim and didn't reveal much more than our first impressions, beyond a couple of old fashioned, brightly painted surfboards tacked up on the walls and displayed like art.

"Hang on, he warned me the storm gates would be up. Wait a minute, this will definitely get better," Thom insisted, walking towards what I had at first taken for an unfinished wooden wall at the far end, but then realised had huge sheets of glass in front of it. He unlocked a panel that was apparently one of a set of french doors in the middle, then stepped up to the wooden wall. "Give me a hand with this, will you? The lock is bloody heavy." Together, we unhooked the massive latch and then pushed two immense wooden sea doors outward, revealing a small, sheltered patio, hemmed in on both sides by the sand dunes, then a stretch of private beach, and then the impossibly blue Pacific Ocean, only a dozen yards from the house. 

"Oh my god," I gasped, forgetting the tiny, cramped tunnel of a house entirely, and just staring at the view as the sun sank into the sea. The internal rooms weren't even the point of the house, the patio was, as this was the closest thing you could get to living actually on the beach and still have a roof over your head. I walked out, almost to the edge of the water, craning my neck to try to see the mainland, but the angle of the spit was such that all I could see was water. No neighbours, no village, no nothing - just the high sand dunes, rustling with wild grasses, and the endless ocean. I moved backwards, into our sheltered little patio, and it was like the rest of the world didn't even exist, it was just us and the water.

"And here we have it, just like I imagined it," Thom sighed, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist, nestling his pointed little chin into my shoulder. "Our house by the sea. Do you like it?"

"I love it," I told him, turning around in his arms to stare into his eyes, mirroring back the boundless blue-grey of the ocean. "And I love you."

"Me, too." He grinned and leaned forward to kiss me, pressing his lips against mine with a new urgency, but as he ground his hips against mine, he pulled his mouth away and smiled at me proudly, glancing down at the swelling in his jeans. "Christ, I could bang you right here."

"I could do you one better than that," I told him saucily, winking at him as I stepped back slightly, and started to unbutton his shirt, leaving a kiss on each speckled inch of flesh that I exposed. I kissed his chest, I kissed the crease between his breast and stomach, I kissed his belly, sticking my tongue teasingly into his belly button until he giggled. And then I kissed lower, undoing his belt and unzipping his jeans to follow the trail of his hair with my mouth. Thom moaned quietly, and rested his hands gently on the top of my head, running his fingers through my dreads as my mouth found his cock, kissing the bell-end lightly before leaving a series of butterfly kisses all down the length of his shaft. And then he shifted, and pushed his jeans and pants off his hips in a single fluid motion, gently bucking towards me as if urging me to take him in my mouth, even as I teased his balls with my tongue.

"Oh god," he muttered as my lips finally found him, and parted to swallow him whole, feeling his length swelling to fill my mouth. Reaching around behind him, I grabbed great handfuls of his skinny arse to pull him towards me, feeling the scent of him filling my nostrils, that good, clean, musk of a man. Working with my tongue, I moved my mouth up and down his shaft, sucking hard as I pulled my head back, then softly as I let him slide back into my mouth. He kept whimpering and sighing, stroking my hair as he tried to catch his breath, moving his hips towards me and away as if trying to fuck my mouth, his whole body twitching every time I caught him with a flick of my tongue. "Christ," he hissed, then I realised he was pulling gently at my hair, trying to push my head away. "You need to stop," he almost begged.

"Why?" I asked, looking up at him and licking my lips provocatively. "I was enjoying that."

"So was I," he breathed loudly. "But I want to be inside you. Properly inside you." And with that, he took me by the hands and pulled me roughly to my feet, kissed my mouth hungrily, then flipped me over, pushing me down to rest on a low stone wall with a wooden bench on top of it. He moved urgently, pulling up my dress and feeling between my legs with his fingers, clawing my knickers out of the way, then pushing my labia apart, feeling for the moisture inside before following with his cock, still wet with my saliva. I gasped as he pushed into me, hard, almost knocking me off my feet, then recovered my balance, pushing back against him. He shifted, trying to get deeper, moving one of his legs up onto the wall, then he reached forward and pulled my dress off, feeling for my breasts, cupping them in his hands as he nibbled at my back. I bent over more, raising my arse to meet him, squeezing him and making him moan, even as one of his hands slid down my belly and between my legs, pushing with his fingertip so that my clitoris was squeezed exquisitely between the rough thrusts of his cock and the soft pressure of his hand. No longer afraid of being heard, I cried out in pleasure, frightening off a seagull that had ventured a little too close to us, then burst out laughing. Thom giggled and pulled me closer, leaning forward to nibble on my ear. "I'm so tempted to shout."

"Go ahead. There's no one to stop you here," panted, though I was rather too close to orgasm to reply.

"Furious..." A deep thrust that sent little pre-orgasmic shivers pulsing up my spine. "Loves..." Another thrust, which rubbed me long and slow, with exactly the right pressure to trigger the chain reaction of my orgasm. "Eyesore," he panted, though the wind and the roar of the waves ripped his words from his mouth as he shuddered and spurted inside me.

I laughed and giggled, feeling very light-headed and dizzy as I turned slightly to kiss him. "It's a good thing you didn't scream I Love Lucy as you came, or I would have been laughing too hard to orgasm," I teased.

He giggled and grinned coyly, kissing the tip of my nose. "I had considered it, but didn't think you'd thank me."

"Eyesore loves Furious, too," I told him, kissing him tenderly before shifting my hips, letting him pull out of me. At that moment, I loved him completely, with a fierceness that seemed to overwhelm sense or rationality or prudence. If he didn't bother with condoms any more - that meant we trusted each other, right? But I felt too happy to ask him about it, looking about for my dress, then deciding that I liked the feel of the last rays of the sun on my bare skin. "Do you want dinner, or do you just want to retire straight to bed?"

"I want to eat you all up," he teased, pretending to take a chunk out of my shoulder.

"Not very nutritious, and certainly not vegetarian," I teased.

"Fuck vegetarians," he snorted, pulling me towards him and rubbing his belly against mine.

"I do," I laughed, and nipped his neck.

"Who are all these other vegetarian boys of yours, then? I'll kill 'em," he growled, making a very fierce face before creasing into giggles again. This was how I loved him best - his face all lit up with mischief as he squirmed playfully.

"Hush. We need to get dressed and get the suitcases and the groceries out of the car." I didn't really want him to let loose of me at all, enjoying the feeling of his strong arms wrapped tightly around my naked body.

"I'm not sure I want you getting dressed ever again. I think I'm going to declare this beach hut a nudist colony."

"Does that mean you'll strut round naked, too?" I teased, biting my lip in anticipation of the idea, even as he pulled up his jeans.

Thom's face clouded, and for a moment, I thought he was going to protest and complain about his 'disgusting, pale, pasty body' but then his face lit up and he grinned cockily. "Yeah, maybe. Do you think I'm sexy?" Pulling away from me, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and kind of pulled it open, flashing his bare chest at me for a moment before laughing and pulling it closed. I just stared, smiling, entranced, feeling lust curling in the bottom of my stomach as he started to sing, swinging his hips gently to the song. "If you want my body, and you think I'm sexy, come on, sugar, let me know..." I'd just been fucked breathless by this man - how on earth could he be tempting me again already? And yet tempting me he was, pulling his shirt off one shoulder and smiling coyly backwards over his freckles. "If you really need me, just reach out and touch me, come on honey, tell me so..." I let out a little squeal of anticipation as he slid his shirt halfway down his back and swung his hips from one side to another, his jeans, unbelted, threatening to slip off his skinny hips. This was the Thom I loved, the utter flirt, the tease, pulling off first one shirtsleeve, then the other, as he danced, flicking his hips slowly back and forth in a lazy figure 8 - not the neurotic, insecure man who had been staying at the house in Silverlake for the past month.

And yet what was the difference? It wasn't just being alone; he'd been like this in Japan. Was there something that triggered his confidence? Was there something I could do to bring out this cocky side of him more often? Or was it just something uncontrollable, like moods and the weather?

"Come on," he finally urged, after he finally stopped dancing for me and bent down to pick up my dress. "Get dressed - but not too dressed. We do need to unpack the car."

I picked up his shirt and wrapped it round my shoulders - it was just long enough to be a minidress on me as I half-buttoned it to preserve a shred of modesty.

"Can you bend over?" he asked, with genuine concern, but as I turned around and bent over teasingly, his face curled with lust. "Christ, I can just see your..." Moving towards me, he slipped his hand gently over my bum then pushed his fingers between my legs to reveal the slick, wet strip of pink. "Give me half an hour, woman, and I will be right there..."

"Half an hour should be just enough time to unload the car and make dinner."

It also gave me time to explore the house, which I'd barely glanced at as we'd come in. There was more of it than I had seen at first. Above the long, low main room, there was a second layer, a wide wooden ladder up to the bedroom, a low-ceilinged balcony with a steeply pitched roof, and a pair of skylights that led out onto another, secret, hidden porch, ringed all around with tall grasses, though you could still see over them to the sea. The bed was a wide, low wooden box of a thing, with a carved wooden headboard, full of knots and burrs as if it were salvaged driftwood.

Downstairs, there was an entry area by the door, with a desk by the wall, some stiff-backed chairs and what could have been a small dining room table. Then there was the kitchenette, fairly basic, just a small fridge, a sink and a rickety electric oven and hob. There was a larger living area, with a group of low, comfortable sofas gathered in a semi-circle, pointed towards the view. There was a small stereo, with expensive looking little speakers, but there was no television. The only door lead off the main area  into a small, low loo that smelled of earth, as it had clearly been dug into the heart of the dune. In there was another sink and an old fashioned toilet with a cistern way up in the air and an ancient, creaky pull chain. No sign of a shower, or a bath though - perhaps one didn't need one with the ocean so close - until Thom stumbled outside again and let out a little cry of surprise as he turned on the floodlights illuminating the patio.

"It's out here," he called.

"What? An outside shower? That's horrible! No privacy at all." I followed the sound of his voice to see that he was staring at a bathtub with an outdoor shower head above, in a sheltered alcove, behind one of the large storm gates, so that it formed a space that was enclosed on three sides, but open to the sky and sea.

"Oh, I think it's lovely," protested Thom. "Imagine sitting and having a bath while staring at the sea. I can't wait until tomorrow morning to give it a try."

"Give it a try now," I suggested.

He pulled a face. "Can't. Water heater runs on solar power."

"That's very green," I observed, wondering how they had got electricity out here. "But surely it doesn't mean you can only bathe during daylight."

"Well, no, but it means there will be no power left for the lights, or cooking our dinner. Speaking of which..."

"No, I unloaded the groceries, which means it is definitely your turn to cook." I had only been teasing, fully expecting to have to make dinner, but Thom took it in his stride.

"Ok, fair enough. I'll do it. But where'd you put the bottle of wine? I'd like a drink first."

I stared at him as he fussed around the kitchen, chopping up vegetables for a salad, slicing fresh herbs into a bowl of chickpeas. So he was encouraging of my music, he fucked like a sex-beast, and he could cook? _Thom Yorke, where have you been all my life?_ I thought to myself as I remembered the terrible 'experiments' that Jack had begrudgingly made once or twice a year - though I was convinced that he cooked so badly specifically to make me take back over from him. This was clearly a different kind of relationship in every way.

We ate dinner while watching the sunset, then crawled up the ladder to bed. True to his word, Thom's mouth found me in the dark, and he slipped inside me, coaxing another orgasm from my exhausted body before we fell asleep.

The first light of dawn woke us early - not even because of the sun, as the bedroom windows faced to the west, but because of the birds, waking from their sandy beds and swirling round the sky in their masses, on the lookout for a fishy breakfast in the lagoon. Thom and I tried to have a lie in, but we were still more interested in each others' bodies than in sleep. Everything about him intrigued me, the way the little pink nubs of his nipples rose to my touch, the soft hood of his foreskin, the dusting of blond hair covering his belly and climbing its way up his chest. And he was just as entranced by mine, tracing my tanlines down my chest and under my breasts, investigating my belly button with his tongue and examining the pink undersides of my feet and my palms to see where I was most ticklish.

We didn't get up until past noon, had a late breakfast, then set out to walk along the tops of the sand dunes to find our way back to the village. A quiet drink at the local bar, then a long, leisurely swim in the ocean, then we just lay together on the sand, noses and elbows touching as we soaked up the sun and dried off. It really was heaven.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Thom are happy together at last. But how much has he given up to be with her?

By the time I returned to work on Monday, I was completely relaxed and chilled out, sated with sex and sun and blissful hours in the ocean. Thom came with me that morning, as we left the house and drove into LA, promising that he would come back and meet me at the end of the day, and drive me home. When I arrived at the studio, I realised it had actually done me good to have a weekend away from Adie and Cherry - as much as I adored them, living with them had been taking a daily toll on my tolerance. But now I felt pleased to see them, and looked forward to our work with unrestrained pleasure, instead of tempered vaguely with annoyance.

The time spent on songwriting and on preproduction sessions had actually paid off - we were able to get to work quickly and efficiently, as Adie wrote up all the songs on a chalkboard at the back of the control room, and ticked off the various tracks as we did them. When it actually came to recording, Cherry - flakey, easily distractable Cherry - was actually a seasoned pro. She would studiously belt out her tracks, troop through into the control room to listen to them on good speakers, then nod her head decisively and objectively criticise her own performances, deciding which takes to keep as they were, and which to try to do with a different emotional timbre. And boy, could that girl emote. When she put her headphones on and stepped up to Adie's new Neumann, the giggly, goofy teenage girl vanished, and she sang with all the emotional depth and heartbreak of her country idols, bringing a worldweary twang to Adie's and my juddering nervous soundscapes.

At the end of the first full day of recording, Thom rang tentatively on the studio intercom, and asked if he could come in to hear what we'd done. Cherry didn't care - as far as she was concerned, he was still just the bassist from Coldplay, but Adie and I were nervous as hell, biting our nails as he sat on the studio sofa and listened intently to the first track. But as he listened, his face changed from suspicious to appreciative to actually transcendent.

"OK, I'm jealous," he finally admitted. "Hearing this, I admit it. I was wrong."

"Wrong about what?" Cherry asked, piqued.

"Never mind," retorted Adie with a grin, but I could see it all over his face, that he felt he had been vindicated, that he was right and Thom was wrong. And yet still, I thought it was big of Thom to admit it. Most men wouldn't have - well, Jack wouldn't have. But how many times did I have to remind myself, Thom was not Jack?

"Can I take you to dinner?" Thom offered, and I smiled. That was nice, I liked the idea that we were all going to stay mates, even after I'd moved out.

"Well, I dunno. We were gonna go hang with Steve and Teebs - they've been teaching me how to shoot hoops..." Adie hedged.

Thom frowned. "This obsession with guns and shooting things, I will never understand it. And I'll never understand what you see in it, Adie."

Cherry burst out laughing. "They mean hoops - like, playing basketball, you dumb-ass limey."

Thom closed his mouth somewhat foolishly, his face dark. "Oh well. Another night, maybe. We have a long drive, don't we, Luce?"

"I guess." My heart sunk a little - I had been looking forward to the idea of seeing Steve and Teebs and the Cowboy again. "See you tomorrow, then."

"Hang on, I'm going to pick some things up from Nigel," Thom announced as we walked down the main corridor of the studio complex. "I thought I should take advantage of the seclusion of our house, and get some writing done. He said he'd lend me a guitar and a spare microphone and some things."

The recording light wasn't on in Studio A, so Thom bounced in, and threw his arms warmly around his producer. "No, don't get up. How's it going? What is this, Take 27, do I see?" he snickered.

"It's still a lot easier and less of a headache than you lot," Nigel teased in response.

"You love us really," Thom laughed, ruffling what was left of Nigel's receding hair affectionately. "You even love the headaches. They help your hair grow."

"You're right, it just wouldn't be a session without you popping in and bothering me. I'm flattered you came all the way out to LA just to interrupt. Hang on a minute." He leaned forward and pressed the talk button on the mixing desk. "Guys, let's take a five minute break. I know you're all dying for cigarettes anyway." He gave the thumbs up through the window, then turned back to Thom and I. "You wanted to borrow a guitar, right? Well, I've got my Tele and my Gibson here. Which would you prefer?"

"Both?" Thom asked hopefully.

"Not a chance."

"Is it the SG?"

"Yeah."

"I'll take it. And can I borrow an SM-57 as well?"

"Take my house, take my dog, take my wife while you're at it." Nigel rolled his eyes but still went and dug in a kit box until he found a leather bag with a microphone in it. "Do you need a cable as well?"

"Yeah. And one of those little thingy-ummies to input it to a computer, as well?"

"Moon on a stick, that's what you want, Yorke," Nigel sighed, but still dug in his box to find him the right cable and converter. "It's not a gift, though. I need them back, before I leave LA."

"I'll try, but I don't know how long we'll be here," Thom shrugged, stowing his ill-gotten gains in the guitar case and packing it up. "It's not like you don't know where I live. You can come round the house and collect it when I get home, if you get back to Britain before I do."

Nigel rolled his eyes again and turned to me as if for an appeal. "Never let this man borrow anything," he warned. "He'll steal anything that isn't nailed down. Guitars, cables, microphones..."

"Well, he stole my heart a long time ago," I laughed, and suddenly Nigel's whole face changed. Christ, was that the wrong thing to say? He was looking at me slightly suspiciously now, with that guarded expression that Jonny had taken on when he realised that Thom and I were together. Come on, don't tell me that Thom hadn't bothered telling Nigel why he was staying in LA. For a moment, we stared at one another, caution on my face, an unreadable expression on his, but then he forced his mouth into a smile, though his eyes remained cold. Were all Thom's friends going to dislike me? I had never counted on that part of the deal.

"Anyway, Thom, I can't hang around all night. I've got a band to record. But don't be a stranger, eh?"

"Of course I won't be. After all, Lucy is recording next door now."

"I see." Again that cold expression, like he was trying to get the measure of me. "Take care, see you around." I noted that the extension of the invitation not to be a stranger was not extended to me.

But Thom seemed to notice nothing, singing to himself and tapping the steering wheel as he drove out the long but undeniably beautiful drive back to our house.

I forgot everything when I saw the ocean, the blue-green water so clear I could see the sparkle of the gold sand beneath. And with every scrubbing motion of the waves, I could feel all my problems and my anxieties being swept further and further out to sea, far away from me and my lover.

I loved that house. I loved the ocean, and the sun and the sand. I loved how happy we were there. And most of all, I loved the kind, and tender and beautiful man I shared it with. It was a joy, just to be with him in those days. Discovering tiny things about one another, the slow intimacy of spending so many moments together, the small joy of another moment of recognition as we found another foible we shared. We laughed when we found we both ate peas with a knife, squishing them up onto the back of the fork, like we'd learned at school. We laughed when we found out we both liked the bedsheets to be tucked in at the bottom, trapping our feet in a private world. And we laughed at the way we both put our socks on, but nothing else, just to avoid running barefoot across the cold floor as we made our way outside to the tub.

We told ourselves we bathed together to save electricity for the hot water, but really it was just another excuse for the intimacy of touching one another's skin. Giggling, we soaped each other in that giant outdoor shower, as I scrubbed at his back with clean sea-sand to scrape the dead skin of his faded sunburn off. I marvelled that his skin did not tan, it just turned to constellations of freckles, even as the sun bleached his hair golden blond at his temples and crown. Those freckles, they pleased me so much, I thought I would never get over them, wanting to connect them like dots, tracing my finger from one to the next, despite his protests of ticklishness.

It was a leisurely existence, despite the hard hours I put in, in the studio. Even though Adie and Cherry sometimes kept going on vocal takes until some ungodly time in the morning, as I could see timestamps of 3 or 4 am on the files the next day, I tried to leave before it got dark, so that I could get home in time to watch the sun set with my lover. I loved the long evenings we spent together, lying in a hammock on our balcony, the breezes off the ocean cooling us down after a long, hot day. Sometimes we sat and read to one another, other times we just lay curled together, staring at the sea as the sunset painted it purple and gold.

Of course we squabbled like any couple - over whose turn it was to do the dishes, over who left the lights on down on the patio after we'd gone to bed - but those days were among the happiest of my life, no matter what came before, or what came after. OK, I did sometimes give him a bit of a hard time over leaving the patio lights on, but Christ! Have you seen the size of Californian bugs? And I always had a complete horror of insects, though Thom was completely soppy about any form of life, sentient or not, one of the few affectations of Buddhism that had stuck with him. 

Even as I cowered in fear, shrieking about some deaths-head moth that had flapped its way into the bedroom, he would climb out of bed with the patience of a saint, trap it in his cupped hands, and take it outside to set it free. Sometimes he would try to show them to me with a breathless appreciation of their natural beauty. "Look at the filigree pattern of his wings, so delicate, so perfect..."

"I don't care, it's a bug, get it out of here. And turn off the patio light while you're down there, you know that's what attracts the Goggas."

"It's not a Hoh-hoh," he insisted, stumbling over the guttural Afrikaans word. "It's a night-moth. And it's beautiful."

"I don't care what it is, get it away from me," I shrieked, as he moved towards me, but he just laughed, extending his hands to show me what he had cupped between them as he climbed onto the bed. The horrible thing escaped, and flew up right into my face before flapping off to flitter round the lamp. "Ugh! I hate you!"

"No you don't," he insisted, climbing over me and bending down to try to kiss me, but I batted his hands, still covered in filmy moth-dust, away from me.

"You're not kissing me with that thing still flapping about the room."

"Alright, alright," Thom grumbled, rolling his eyes as he climbed to his feet and recaptured the insect. "He just wants to share our light. Can you blame him?" His eyes twinkled with a half-smile as he glanced over towards me. "Just like me, they long to be... close to you..."

"Get it out of here," I snorted, even as internally, I did squee a bit at the soppiness of the Carpenters reference.

"I guess I just know how he feels," Thom shrugged, pulling back the glass door with one foot, then tossing the hapless insect out into the night. With a soft swish, he closed the door again, but a few moments later, the moth was back, slamming its body repeatedly into the glass, trying to get back into the room. Thom frowned, watching helplessly as the thing smashed into the French windows again and again. "I _really_ know how that feels."

"Close the curtain," I insisted. "It'll leave us alone if it can't see the light."

Thom sighed deeply, a sentimental fool who could even get upset about an insect, then flipped off the lightswitch, and watched gloomily as the bug finally fluttered drunkenly off into the night sky. But then again, that was another thing I loved about him, wasn't it? A man who could empathise even with such a tiny creature.

"Come to bed," I told him, pulling the sheet back for him.

He turned and fixed me with a wistful half-smile before padding back to bed, draping himself over me and kissing me tenderly. "You're my candle, and I'm the stupid fucking insect that can't stay away from you."

 

\----------

 

There were so many moments of perfect happiness, those weeks we shared in the dunes.

A candle-lit dinner, roasting corn on the cob on the patio grill late one night when we'd accidentally let the solar batteries run out of juice.

Dancing on the patio, more than slightly drunk, to careful DJ sets he'd put together just for me, in iTunes, arms around each others' necks, swaying and swinging one another round in lazy circles to the throbbing bass spilling from tinny laptop speakers.

Walking in the dunes under the silvery light of a full moon, arms around each others' waists, heads slipping into the familiar crook of one another's shoulders, fingers brushing together as I reached for the bottle of cheap Californian wine we were sharing.

Sitting side by side on the dock in the village, legs dangling in the cool water as we ate something like an American version of fish and chips - well, I ate the fish, he ate the chips, throwing out bits of batter to the circling seagulls.

Drinking fizzy American beer in the saloon-bar, waiting for our turn to play a game of pool. (He was hopeless, but I was worse, even as he bent over me, trying carefully to show me how to take aim at the balls, his arm stretched alongside mine on the green felt, his breath warm on the back of my neck, making me forget all about the rules of the game we were trying to concentrate on.)

Lying side by side in the shade of the hammock, faces almost touching as we dozed in the mid-day heat, and the feel of his almost impossibly long eyelashes brushing against my cheeks as his eyes flickered slowly shut.

Swimming in the ocean, me in a white bikini I'd bought in Hollywood with Cherry, that made me feel like a 60s Bond Girl, and him in a ridiculous pair of oversized trunks that made him look even more like a small boy in a man's clothes.

"You should have come swimming me with and Ed in Nottingham if you wanted to see my smart swimming costume," he teased.

"I had completely forgotten about that," I whistled. "It seems like half a lifetime ago."

"It feels like that was another lifetime. I can't believe there was ever a time that I didn't know you."

I paused, treading water as I thought of the cascade of events that night had triggered. "Do you ever regret it, meeting up?" The words were out of my mouth before I really thought about what they meant.

"Do you?" His face was suddenly a round O of fear. "You'd still be married to Jack."

"I wouldn't," I snapped, then realised that actually, like the stupid suicidal moth that kept circling back to the lightbulb, I probably would. I looked up and met his eyes as I dodged a wave. "No. No matter what's happened, I don't regret it. Being with you? Not a minute of it."

But his face was still dark as he flipped over onto his back, floating effortlessly in the gently rolling surf. "I don't know. I do and I don't. Mostly I don't. I don't regret a thing that has happened since we got together, but... OK, I regret a few things along the way."

"Like what." My voice was guarded, as I waited for him to say he regretted Japan, or Australia, or LA.

"I regret not kicking Adie out and banging you senseless, that morning in Kieran's flat," he laughed, his eyes twinkling, then sputtered as a larger wave knocked him over and swamped him. "Hell, I regret not shagging you in Nottingham. If I'd known what shagging you would be like, I'd have made you turn your phone off - or thrown it out the window. And dragged you on up to Scotland, as well."

"But what would you have done... if we had never met up. If Jonny hadn't come out that night and got me. I bet _he_ wishes he hadn't, now." He winced at the mention of Jonny, like a wound that still hurt. "If I'd just turned and gone back to my hotel and got drunk with the other fans."

His voice grew very quiet. "I'd be on a beach in Italy right now, instead of a beach in LA."

I turned away from him, blinking into the horizon as I stared out into the endless blue of the Pacific, feeling something rising up, stronger than the fear of drowning. And then suddenly I felt strong hands gripping my back, pulling me up from under my arms like a lifeguard.

"But I'm not, alright? And I don't regret that for a moment."

 

\----------

 

We swam every morning. It was my favourite part of the day, the cool of the dawn, before the fierce heat of the sun took hold. I'd started to wake at dawn, and slip out of bed, out of Thom's arms, down to the cool water, refreshing after the close stillness of the darkened house. About fifteen minutes later, he would emerge, yawning and stretching like a cat, his bedhead hair sticking out all around like a halo as he rubbed his eyes. He would stand by the water, testing it with tentative toes, as if trying to get the courage to come in, wading out a few metres before finally plunging his whole body in, emerging dripping wet and blinking like a seal, his hair flattened against his head, his body hair newly dark against his milky skin. He might float on his back, paddle a bit, then he would turn, and with short, swift strokes, swim out to meet me, enfolding me in his strong arms, holding me against the current as we kissed good morning.

I loved the way he looked at me, the way his face lit up when he saw me, the slow smile that would creep across his face as his eyes slid down my body as I emerged from the sea, wringing water from my hair.

" _Giurar potresti che dell'onde uscissi - la dea premendo colla destra il crino - coll'altra il dolce pome ricoprissi_ ," he recited one morning, lying in a reclining deck chair, watching me walk up the beach towards me, his face twisted into a grin of admiration and lust. "You look so amazingly beautiful, I could almost believe in goddesses."

"What is that, Latin? I did study it for years, but I don't remember any after leaving the sixth form," I confessed.

"No, medieval Italian. Angelo Poliziano." The ungainly name rolled off his tongue effortlessly. "His poem was supposedly the inspiration for Botticelli's Birth of Venus. _You could swear that the goddess had emerged from the waves, pressing her hair with her right hand, covering with the other her sweet mound of flesh._ " His eyes flickered lower, down towards my bikini bottom as a slow curl of desire twisted round his mouth.

"I didn't now you spoke Italian," I teased, moving towards him as if I was going to straddle his chair, threatening to flick my wet hair across him.

"I don't. My gir..." An expression of indescribable pain passed across his face like a cloud. "My ex did."

I pulled away gently, surprised by the freshness of his pain. Jack had become little more than a dull ache, someone I was in the process of forgetting, but clearly Thom's breakup was much closer to the surface. "I'm sorry," I said as gently as I could, moving to sit down next to him on the canvas. "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories." Moving my hand to his cheek, I caressed him softly, reassured by the way his face bent towards me, rubbing his beard against my fingers. It startled me that my first reaction was not actually jealousy, but concern, hating to see him in any kind of distress.

"It's OK. And I'm sorry - it was me who brought it up. It's hard sometimes not to think of it..." I hated how bereft his face looked as his big blue eyes tried not to well up with tears. "I won't lie. As much as I love you, I do miss her sometimes. And I do miss my family terribly."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I offered.

"Kinda... But I don't think I should, with you?"

My heart twinged, though I wanted to pretend it didn't. It hurt, somehow, that there were things he didn't want to - or couldn't discuss with me.

He saw the distress on my face, and frowned, then stuttered "No, I mean... it's not that I don't trust you, I just don't think it's fair. To either you or her."

"I see," I said quietly, though I did not remove my hand from his face, moving my thumb back and forth across his chin, feeling the rough fuzz of his beard. "Is there anyone you can talk about it to?"

"Well..." Another crease of pain across his face. "I would usually talk about things with Jonny, but... Well, Jonny isn't exactly speaking to me." The distress at that confession seemed actually worse than that at the loss of his ex-girlfriend.

"You've left everyone for me," I whispered, feeling a fog of terror rising from the pit of stomach and threatening to swamp my happiness.

Thom shook his head and reached out, wrapping his hands around my waist as he pulled me down against him, wet hair splayed out all across his bare chest. "I love you, and I want to be with you. I don't understand why people can't accept that."

People. I didn't like the plural that implied. "I love you, and I want you to be happy. Isn't that what it means, to love someone? To want them to be happy? If people see you happy, can't they learn to accept that?"

"I hope so," he breathed into my hair, his fingers playing with my dreads in a way I found both familiar and reassuring. After a few moments of lying together like that, he smiled and seemed to brighten. "Do you want breakfast? There's fresh melon I found at the market yesterday."

"Sounds like heaven."


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All kinds of secrets come out, first, when Lucy walks in on Adie and Cherry in a somewhat heavy "session".
> 
> And again, when a visitor from home brings news of aspects of Thom's life that Lucy didn't know - or didn't want to know.

Some days Thom drove down to LA with me, going shopping or visiting friends while I was at the studio. But most days he didn't. He said he liked the isolation of the beach house, going for long walks along the seaside before settling down to write and record. And the new songs he was coming up with were beautiful, the loveliness shining through the sparse arrangements played on laptop and guitar. I loved coming home to him after the intense buzz of the studio, and finding him bouncing with excitement to see me after a long day's work.

I knew it wasn't fair to compare, but I couldn't help but think of my old life, with Jack. I couldn't help but remember how much I'd hated it, dragging myself home from a hard day in an office where I didn't really want to be, but was my only refuge, and coming back to find Jack, sullen and resentful at my return. In contrast, Thom seemed bursting with creativity and excitement, wriggling like a puppy as he hugged me, then dashed upstairs to fetch his guitar or play me some new drumbeat he'd worked on programming. And his enthusiasm was infectious, as I found myself caught up in his good moods, listening to the music swirling out of him with wonder and joy.

"You should write your own solo album," he told me insistently. "After you're done with the Cherry record, you really should try it. It's amazing... the freedom. The sense of possibility. I should have done this years ago. You really should give it a go."

"Maybe," I told him. On days when it was going well in the studio, me and Adie and Cherry locked into a groove with single-minded dedication, I shrugged it off, but on the days when we argued, and it all felt like hard work, I had to admit I was tempted.

But work was creeping forward steadily, as the album was growing and taking shape. A month slid by at Ocean Way, then six weeks. Steve - English Steve, not American Steve - had heard and loved some of the tracks, which filled me with far more confidence than the approval of Mariko and the yay-sayers at Capitol. He came up with the genius idea of releasing one of the darker, weirder songs on his label as a kind of teaser - "Axiom N Atom featuring Cherry Stone" - mostly because he knew how good the songs were, and how well they would sell, but also partly as a boost to the idea of Cherry as a serious, credible musician. Mariko hemmed and hawed, and complaining about licensing, but in the end, even she agreed it was a brilliant idea, and the digital masters were sent off.

I didn't know what I thought of it - and for once, I didn't ask Thom's opinion as I knew in advance he would call it a cynical marketing ploy. But Adie was learning to play the marketing game, and it scared me a bit. The innocent teenage boy I'd met outside Brixton Tube Station nearly a year previously seemed to have been rubbed, sanded and polished away, as he threw himself into learning the ins and outs of the LA music business with the same whole-hearted gusto he'd once thrown himself into learning programming tools on the Loophole all that time ago. People I didn't know drifted in and out of the studio, made their comments on the tracks, then would go off again with a handshake. I found out only afterwards that they were famous  DJs, radio pluggers, minor executives at MTV. Thom's voice echoed in my head, warning me about how insidiously the taint of corporate money crept into everything, but I quieted it, and said nothing, though I had started to watch Adie with a different air.

But the big blow-up came as we were starting the final stage of mixing, an absolutely crucial point in the whole recording process. I had left early, promising Thom that I would be home in time to meet a friend of his for dinner in Solitas. But as I guided the car onto the turn-off for the Pacific Coast Highway, the western sun hit my eyes and I realised I'd left my sunglasses in the studio, so I turned back. I was cursing my scatterbrained distraction as I parked the car, waved at the security guard and breezed back into our studio without even bothering to ring the bell. And walked straight into Cherry, straddling Adie in his seat at the mixing desk, as the two of them were snogging each others' faces off.

"Oh my god." I hadn't meant to say anything, I had meant to turn around and run quietly away, but in my shock, I dropped my retrieved sunglasses with a loud clatter.

"Oh shit," Cherry laughed as the two of them pulled apart guiltily, wiping her lipstick off Adie's face as he slowly turned to smirk at me. And all along, I thought they'd been _working_ until 4am.

"What... are you doing?' I demanded, utterly taken aback.

"What does it look like we're doing?" Cherry giggled, buttoning her top, which had come away from her shoulder where Adie had pushed his hand inside.

"You're not..." I looked back and forth between them, even as Cherry climbed off Adie's lap, his hand brushing against her leg in an over-familiar way. "Are you completely fucking stupid?"

"What?" shrugged Adie, glancing up at me sideways.

"Are you completely fucking mad?" I exploded.

"So we fancy each other, what's the big deal?" Adie protested sulkily.

"Do you _like_ playing with fire? Can you not even wait until the album is finished and handed in and... do you know how much is at stake here?" I sputtered.

Adie blinked back at me, slowly and evenly, as I realised how familiar my words were. "I don't really see how different this is to you fucking Thom Yorke when we were on tour with Radiohead."

"Radiohead?" gasped Cherry. "Hang on. Thom - little Thom, Lucy's Thom - he's in Radiohead? Have you guys been fucking with me, all along?"

"But... but... we weren't slap bang in the middle of making a once in a lifetime make or break record with Radiohead when I started sleeping with Thom," I howled. 

"We were in the middle of a once in a lifetime, make or break tour they could easily have kicked us off!" Adie tossed back.

"But they didn't! And I waited... nearly... a year. A whole year! before I got together with Thom. It was not some spur of the moment... thing... like... could you two not just wait a couple of months...?" I couldn't quite work out what exactly it was that I was that I was so angry and disappointed about, but all I knew was that I was furious.

Cherry had picked up the laptop and started googling. "Little Thom... _our_ Thom... with the scruffy beard and the ridiculous swimming trunks... Oh my god, that's Thom fucking Yorke of Radiohead? Am I the last person to know _everything_?"

Adie narrowed his eyes with a viciousness that was completely new to his handsome face. "Well, at least Cherry ain't got a wife and kid back in England."

"What." That stopped me in my tracks, feeling completely unfooted. "What are you talking about?"

"You heard me." Adie's face was a stony mask.

"Thom's not married," I insisted, trying to process what the hell Adie was saying to me. I knew he wasn't married, he didn't wear a ring, he called that woman his ex-girlfriend, not his ex-wife.

"He has a kid, though."

"What." I felt a sickening feeling in my chest, as if I'd been punched in the gut, as if all the air had been sucked out of the studio. "He... what?"

"He has a partner, and a kid - his son - back in England," he insisted, slowly and carefully, with a cold fury that took me by almost as much surprise as the news. Adie had changed, into some stranger I didn't even know any more, altered beyond recognition - but if what he was saying was true, so had my lover.

"How do you know?" I demanded, backing away slowly, willing it not to be true.

"Nigel told me." Slowly, Adie's face started to change, as he realised how shocked and hurt I was, the new hardness melting back into his little-boy worry. "Hang on. You really didn't know?"

"No." I reached behind me, grasping for a seat, just wanting to hold onto something to stop the world from spinning. "Did you? I mean, before Nigel told you?"

"No, but I ain't no Radiohead fangirl. I thought you chicks knew everything about him that he ever did." Panic showed in his eyes as he realised how much the news had hurt me. "Princess Telex knew, she confirmed it for me."

"It's on his Wikipedia page," Cherry volunteered. "Thomas Edward Yorke, musician, singer and guitarist for Radiohead, born 7th October, 1968, Wellingborough, Northamptonshire - wherever the fuck that is. Currently lives in Oxford, England with his partner... and one son, aged two and a half."

I wanted to throw up. My heart pounded in my chest as my insides twisted. Thom had a kid - a son, some little boy out there with his sandy blond hair and his puffy lips - that he had walked out on, left, and abandoned, to be with me. His girlfriend - fuck, I felt bad enough about his girlfriend, some woman I had never even met - but that was nothing to this. I hadn't just stole him from his partner, I had stolen him from his son.

"Oh god you really didn't know." The hardness was gone from his face, it was the Adie I knew again. "I'm sorry."

"I..." My jaw flopped about like a dying fish, but I could think of nothing to say. There was no way to even process this, let alone come up with a reaction. "I'm late for dinner, I have to go..." I stuttered, then fled from the room without even looking at Cherry. Who Adie was screwing seemed completely immaterial now. What was it Adie had said, way back in the day, when we were still arguing about Thom? _Some stupid white boy's thing on the side_. But dear god, I had not known that the stupid white boy whose thing on the side I had refused to be... that he had a kid.

I got about halfway up the coast before I had to pull the car over. I hadn't even noticed I was crying until the tears were so thick and fast I couldn't see to drive, and had to park the car at the side of the road, leaning my head down on the steering wheel as I bawled. No, no, no, no, no, I kept repeating to myself. This is not happening. This cannot be true. My beautiful dream, my perfect fantasy of my lover. How could I not have seen? How could I just go back to him and pretend that everything was OK, smile through dinner with some stranger, knowing that I wasn't just a heartless bitch and boyfriend-stealer, that I was an actual home-wrecker? That I had seduced Thom away from his family? It wasn't just Adie that had changed, that had got harder. I looked in the rear-view mirror and didn't even recognise the teary-eyed stranger staring back.

I don't know how I managed to drive back to Solitas, wiping my tears away with tissues, trying to tidy myself up in the parking lot of the only restaurant in the village, a tiny little bistro on the waterfront, overlooking the tiny harbour. Taking a deep breath, I tried to compose myself, dabbing perfume on my wrists and smearing some eyeliner across my eyelids to hide the red of crying, then I climbed out of the car. I just had to get through the next few hours, with Thom's friend, and then we had to talk this out.

As I walked into the restaurant, I managed to smile at the waitress - as the only British people in Solitas, everyone knew who we were - who showed me through into the big room at the back, where Thom and his friend were already ensconced at the best table, looking out over the sea.

"I'm sorry I'm late, problems at the studio," I tried to chirp nonchalantly, and bent down to kiss Thom hello, but instead he sprung to his feet, as did the small, dark man across the table.

"Lucy! You remember Coz, right?" Thom asked, gesturing towards his bassist.

"Yes, of course. How are you, Colin?" I smiled graciously and extended my hand towards him in greeting. He took my hand, and pulled me into a warm embrace, kissing me first on one cheek and then the other, a gesture of acceptance that took me completely by surprise after the coldness of Thom's other friends. Two hours ago, I'd have been reassured and pleased by the gesture, pleased that at least one of his mates recognised and accepted my presence. But right now, I just felt overwhelmed, and had to try very hard not to burst into tears again.

"Would you like some wine, Lucy? We've been finding that the local plonk is actually excellent," Coz offered and I gratefully accepted. Yes, wine would smooth this awful aching sensation in my chest.

"Sorry, I'm being so rude," I stuttered, trying to smile and look pretty, the model of a new girlfriend. "This is a surprise! Thom didn't warn me who our mysterious visitor would be. How long are you here for?"

"Oh, I'm just out for the week," Coz shrugged, refilling his and Thom's glasses as well as my own.

"Checking up on us," Thom snickered. I could tell by the looseness of his face that he was already slightly drunk - so much for having any serious conversation later.

"Well, not exactly..." Coz wriggled in his chair, clearly trying hard not to stare at me, though he did keep throwing odd glances my way. "I just thought I'd come out and see how things were, for myself, before leaping to any conclusions."

"Well, as you see, we're fine. Blissfully happy, in fact," Thom insisted somewhat defiantly, reaching out for my hand, and holding it, right out in the open where Coz would see the gesture. "How is everyone back home?"

"Oh, good, good, we're all settling back into family life, us and the boys.... Jonny and Sharona have gone on holiday in Tel Aviv... Ed's in London with his missus, Phil's taken his family camping up in the Lake District... And Rachel and Noah are back in England." He slid it so casually into the conversation, like a litany of the goings on of remote cousins, that I almost might not have noticed it, except for the way Thom's entire body tensed up. Colin was tactfully direct, at least, in a way that his little brother was not.

Rachel. Noah. At least I finally had names for those shadowy presences whose existence had always hung so persistently around the outside of Thom's and my relationship - well, even if I'd only found out about the existence of one of them this afternoon. And in that moment, I was suddenly grateful to Adie, even in his clumsy cattiness, that he had at least given me some kind of advance warning so this conversation did not blindside me.

Thom closed his eyes, but did not let go of my hand. "How are they? How's my Noah?"

Coz sipped at his wine, but mine and Thom's stood untouched on the table. "They're good. Noah's getting really big. It's crazy how fast they grow, isn't it? He was just a toddler the last time I saw him, but now he's a runner. A sprinter, even. He's quick, that one, he's going to beat your records in track and field."

Thom smiled despite himself, beaming with pride as he opened his eyes, the love shining in them. "Well, they all said he's going to be taller than his Dad, didn't they? Larger feet, longer legs. He might even be big, tall like my brother and my dad."

"You miss him, don't you?" I heard my voice say, barely believing I had said it aloud.

"Oh god, yes." He turned his gaze helplessly towards me, too much emotion there for me to read. So this explained those occasional heavy silences, the moments he said he missed his family - oh god I was so stupid. I thought he meant his parents, his brother, but he meant his _son_.

"He misses you, too," Coz replied quietly, his eyes flickering away from us and out to the harbour, to the safe blue of the sea.

"I know I have no right to ask for custody after what I've done, but do you think... do you think she'd ever let me see him?" Thom wondered aloud.

"I think she would. She was talking about flying out here, last week, when I said that I was thinking of going to LA. I think she'll come, in a couple of weeks, when school breaks up for the summer."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry aloud and beat my fists against the wide glass of the window, shatter it, and let the brisk sea winds blow us all away. But instead, I asked, in a tiny voice "Does Rachel know about me?" It was so odd to say her name aloud, like saying it made her real.

"Yes, she does." Coz's voice was so flat I could not tell if he had told her, or Thom had told her himself, but there was no doubt in my mind that her knowing about me was the real reason she was coming. Two hours ago, I'd have stamped my feet and put my foot down and refused point blank to allow it - but who was I to say that a man could not see his own son?

Son. A child. God, how was I going to get to used to this, the idea of Thom with a child? Why had he never told me? Or had he just taken it for granted that I, as a fan of his music, or him, would just have known? I felt like my heart was trying to pull itself apart inside my chest.

"She hates, me, I suppose," I heard my voice say, after gulping down almost my entire glass of wine. "Not that I blame her. I'd hate me, too. All of Thom's friends seem to hate me now."

Thom winced and would not meet my eye, but Colin did his best to smile diplomatically. "No one hates you, Lucy. It's just a painful situation for everyone, and not just the people involved. We're like family, it affects us all."

I shot Coz a plaintive look. Was he the only one of Thom's friends who was even remotely willing to even hear my side, let alone take it? "I know your brother hates me now." My voice took on a whinging tone I absolutely hated in myself, but I felt so pathetic. "We used to be friends, but now... he won't even return my email. I think he's unfriended me."

"Jonny is... well, Jonny can be a bit of a moralist sometimes. He always has been. He's a secret Catholic, that boy, I swear to god." His face cracked open in a slight grin as he tried to turn it into a joke. "We never should have let him read Brideshead Revisited. I half expect he's on some kind of Bridey kick, refusing to spend the night under the same roof as an adulterous couple. As if it were catchy." He giggled slightly, even as Thom scowled.

"I'm not sure how we're supposed to be adulterous, considering Rachel and I were never married," he muttered awkwardly, draining his glass of wine, and Coz grimaced at how badly wrong his joke had gone.

But at that moment, the waitress came back with menus for all of us, and the conversation lightened properly. "Do you eat seafood, Lucy?" Coz ventured, looking over the specials. "I'd love to get the lobster and shrimp platter for two, but this one is categorically against eating anything with a face, even shrimp."

Thom smirked, a flicker of the funny, teasing man I loved showing through the awkwardness. "Lobsters and shrimp are the cockroaches of the sea, but if you want to eat them, you go right ahead, Cozzie."

I raised an admonishing eyebrow and tossed back "Mmm, cockroaches. Locusts fried in honey are considered a delicacy in Africa, so I'll be happy to share a lobster platter with you, Colin."

Thom grinned and cackled like a sick duck, and I suddenly remembered another restaurant, another awkward conversation between three people tip-toeing around the edges of a decaying marriage by fighting over meat. How on earth were we going to do this? I reached for my wine and felt the world spin away from me.

Our food came, and the conversation, much to my relief, went off in other directions. Colin loved the little village, loved the winding highway up the coast, and started talking about Jack Kerouac, and his dream to drive up the coast and find Big Sur. I suggested they take the car and go, while I was down at the studio, and Colin started talking about driving all the way to San Francisco at the weekend, to look for the City Lights bookshop. I liked Colin, he was warm and friendly and very funny, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he was examining me, as if he were trying to get a gauge on me, and how I felt about Thom, trying to decide if our love was real.

After dinner, we walked up the single main road of the town, back towards the inn where Colin was staying, and had another bottle of wine in the bar downstairs, but Colin was succumbing fast to the killer jet lag. So we left him to sleep, and set off along the long sandbar towards our house, leaving the car in the parking lot because we were both too sauced to drive. Thom seemed preoccupied, even as he held my hand, swinging my arm as we walked out along the dirt road. So many words welled up inside of me, but I didn't know where to even start. The sun was sinking, and the sky was so dark and purple-pink outside of the town's lights, but I just felt like it might come crashing down on top of me at any moment, if I thought about things too hard.

We walked into the house in silence, and Thom went straight to the fridge and found another bottle of wine - the fourth between three people - as we walked out to the patio to watch the last rays of the sunset colour the sea all gold and pink and pearly-orange. I wanted to sit alone, in the single deck chairs, but he pulled me close into the hammock with him, wrapping his arm around me and nuzzling against me as if for warmth. But I couldn't respond, I just felt my head too full of fear and guilt, and I realised for the first time, that this thing, this tryst between the two of us - it might not last.

"Are you alright?" he finally asked, turning towards me, the sunset picking out highlights of ginger and gold in his hair. "You've been very quiet."

"So have you," I hedged, trying to delay the inevitable conversation. I should leave, I thought to myself. I should do the decent thing, I should tell him that his relationship with his family, with his child, was far more important than whatever it was that he and I were doing, screwing in this beautiful house in the dunes. And yet, even though I knew in my conscience what the right choice should have been, I could not bring myself to say the words.

"I'm sorry. Seeing Coz... he reminded me..."

"Of your little boy," I supplied when his voice gave out. Why did I have to be strong one, why did I have to say the words aloud?

"Yeah." His chest heaved as he said it.

"Why did you never tell me, about Noah?" I heard my voice ask in the gathering darkness.

I could feel his whole body tense, even where it was pressed up against me. "Did you not know, before...?"

"No. Adie told me this afternoon. Nigel told him... well I suppose, at least that explains why Nigel hates my guts."

"Nigel doesn't hate you any more than Jonny does," Thom defended. "He just thinks I'm being an idiot. He doesn't understand why I've left my family. He doesn't understand, just how strong this thing is, that I feel for you."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you warn me... I would never have encouraged you, had I known. I would never..." My voice gave out, ragged, tears threatening to overcome me again. How on earth could I have ever stopped the derailing freight train that was the inexorable pull of Thom's and my attraction?

"Because I'm a selfish arsehole, alright?" Thom snapped, then immediately seemed to regret the outburst. "Because I didn't know you didn't know, not at first. Though I know that's no excuse, is it? But the longer I went without saying about it directly, the easier it was to pretend. Because I didn't want you to know, I didn't want you to think of me that way, middle aged, boring old dad. I wanted you to think of me as young, and creative, and exciting."

"Thom!" I stared at him, barely believing the insecurity lurking behind the beautiful little man sitting beside me.

"I wanted you to think I was _cool_. I wanted you to think that I might fit, in your cool world of avant garde art shows and London dub nights and Berlin sex clubs and other things that scared the shit out of narrow, middle-aged, suburban me."

I shook my head slowly, barely believing what I was hearing. I didn't know who it was he thought he was looking at, when he looked at me. "That was never the problem, you know. I thought you were a fucking rock star. A once in a lifetime dream."

"And I wasn't, I was a 30-something suburban father, up to my arms in nappies and teething rings and teletubbies videos."

"Thom..." I closed my eyes and felt my chest constrict. "I should not be here. You should not be here with me."

"No! No, don't you dare say that, Lucy." He turned towards me, clutching at my shoulders, his face warped by fear, forcing me to look up, into his eyes. "I love you. I have risked everything to be with you. Don't you see that? You can't leave me."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, wishing I hadn't drunk quite so much wine. Fighting against my better judgement, I swallowed my pride and choked my conscience. "I'm not leaving you, even though I think I probably should. I'm in too deep, I love you too much to leave you. I'm greedy, and this is for keeps. But you _need_ to see him. I can't be the one keeping you from him."

"Lucy." Clutching my face between his hands, he looked deep into my eyes, his eyes glinting in the dim light, then brought his mouth down on mine with a force that almost scared me.

We made love with a new kind of ferocity that night, as I clung almost helplessly below him, sinking my teeth into his shoulders as he pumped against me, almost as if he sought to reclaim me with his body. I was too drunk to feel any pain, slamming myself into him, squeezing him as if I wanted to break him, trying to destroy him like he was destroying me - or at least my conscience. And I realised for the first time that night, that this was too big for me to stop. I hadn't really thought what we'd been doing, I had just taken it as it came - a night, and then another night, a week and then another, a month, a hotel in Japan, then a house in Silverlake and now a beach house in Solitas, all of them short-term, short-lets, like it was a short-term contract that either of us could terminate at any moment. But that night, I realised, it was no longer something I could walk away from.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thom goes off for a road trip with Colin, Lucy reconnects with her friends and bandmates.

In the next morning, we didn't get a chance to talk again. At some ungodly hour of the morning, there was the sound of a carhorn outside, hooting too insistently to ignore. Thom opened one eye, grumbled, and tried to pull the pillow over his head to go back to sleep, but another volley of parps roused him. He climbed out of bed, wrapped himself in a dressing gown and went out the window to try and climb up the top of the sand dune to see what was going on. A few minutes later he returned, muttering to himself as he pulled on jeans and made his way down the ladder.

"It's Coz. Of course the bastard doesn't have a hangover or anything. I'll go down and let him in, if you want to make yourself decent."

For a few minutes, I considered leaving them to it and just rolling over and going back to sleep, but they were too noisy as they chatted gaily in the kitchenette, with Coz exclaiming over the beauty of the view as Thom tried to make a pot of tea. So I crawled out of bed, found some cleanish clothes, wrapped my dreads in a knot on the top of my head and made my way down the ladder.

Coz smiled broadly, looking genuinely pleased to see me, and kissed me, again on each cheek as he greeted me. We exchanged pleasantries, then the three of us took our pot of tea and some breakfast fruit out to the patio, where Coz spread a large map of Southern California across the table.

"I reckon we can follow the coast road all the way up to Big Sur. It's pretty twisty and turny, though, looks like an A road most of the way, so I'm not sure it's a single day's drive, there and back. We might have to find a motel and make an overnight trip of it. What do you think?" As Coz looked up at Thom, I could see the light of excitement shining in his eyes. There was a real closeness in that band; they genuinely seemed to want to spend time together, even once the tour was over.

"I think it's a great idea, you should go ahead," I urged, pleased to be able to encourage Thom to keep up his old friendships.

Thom's eyes drifted towards me, and Coz noted the glance. "Why don't you come with us, Lucy?"

Thom twitched slightly, though I couldn't quite tell if he wanted me to stay or go. "Are you sure you two don't want alone time together to... catch up, or whatever?" I hedged.

"No, come!" Colin actually spontaneously clapped with excitement, like a small boy. "Especially if you can read maps, because Thom is absolutely no good at it."

"I've always been really good with maps," I assured him, turning the map around on the table to pick out the best route. I could not believe I was actually contemplating this, blowing off my band and the recording session to go gallivanting off up into the hills with my lover and his friend.

"I can read maps," Thom insisted petulantly.

"Thom, you got us lost on the A4260 to Banbury," Coz snorted.

"That was not my fault, there was a diversion."

Coz rolled his eyes and shook his head long-sufferingly. "Never mind, you can read Jack Kerouac's novel and see if you can find clues to where Ferlinghetti's cabin was."

"Ferlinghetti? Why are we going to see him? Didn't he help invent the atomic bomb?" Thom complained.

"That's Enrico Fermi," Colin explained patiently. "I don't think we have time to drive out to Los Alamos."

Thom and I glanced at one another as we made our way back indoors. "Are you coming?" he asked once we were alone, his voice unsteady, his eyes almost suspicious.

"Do you want me to come?" I felt sick inside, trying to work out where my loyalties lay, to my band, or to my lover? Right now, I didn't feel like Adie and Cherry were being particularly loyal to me. But with the shadow of his family hanging over us, I wasn't that sure of my lover, either.

"Of course I _want_ you to come, but..." His voice trailed off as his face darkened.

"Would you rather be alone, to think about things, get perspective on... us?"

"No!" he snapped. "I made my decision back in Japan, I stand by it."

I wanted so badly to move towards him, to touch the side of his face, tell him how much I loved him, but his eyes looked so fierce and defiant. I was almost afraid of him when he got like this, some furious demon of insecurity and rage that seemed to mess up his head like a stormcloud. I had smashed up my entire life for this man, why couldn't he see that? Why couldn't he accept that I had made sacrifices to be with him, too? I'd left my marriage, quit my job, crashed and burned my bridges on the Loophole, screwed up friendships... but this? Did he really want me to leave my band for him? Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, and tried to find some small, still place inside me that might have the answer.

But he misinterpreted my silence, and hunched his shoulders. "You're having second thoughts. You want time to think... about us, now you know I'm about a hundred times more complicated than I ever told you."

"No. I made my decision last night, and I stand by it. But..."

"But what?" He moved towards me, his lower lip trembling, even as he reached out and helplessly shifted the dreadlock that had fallen into my face, tucking it behind my ear. The gesture was so familiar it reassured me, and I smiled and bent my cheek to brush against his hand, pressing my lips against the ball of his palm.

"But... my music. My band."

Relief flooded his face, as he smiled warmly. "Of course. I'm being so selfish and stupid. I keep forgetting... you are actually out here to record an album, and I am keeping you from doing that every time I demand you spend time with me."

"It's OK. We're both puzzling this out. But you know me. I need to work. Like most people need to breathe. This is how I get through stuff."

"I know that. Lord, do I know that." His mouth twisted into a crooked grimace. "You go and work and be brilliant and amazing with your band, and I'll go off to Big Sur with my band, and I'll pester Cozzie with my snippets of lyrics and bad poetry instead."

So he did understand. In amidst all the confusion of Thom and his lovers and children and the giant mess we had made, there was still the understanding of Sleep Furiously and his belief in me and my music. "OK, and I'll be waiting for you when you get back."

As Thom went upstairs and threw his clothes together in a bag, I scrounged around in the kitchen to make sandwiches for them on the journey out. It was a beautiful day as I carried the cooler out to Coz's large, luxurious hire car. The sky was the sort of deep blue I thought was only possible with the help of cinematic filters, the sun warm despite the early hour. "It gets even better," Coz insisted, fiddling with the dashboard until he found the right button, and then the roof lifted off, and folded back into a compartment behind him.

"You hired a convertible?" chortled Thom, dragging a rucksack of his belongings, awfully large for a weekend trip. "Coz, you smooth fuck. You always were the ladies' man."

"I'm surprised Adie hasn't bought one," I snickered, then felt a pang, glad that I was going back to the studio. I hated it when we fought.

Thom and I kissed goodbye - I felt self-conscious for a moment in front of Coz, but Thom's arm around my waist and his hand on the small of my back reassured me as his lips met mine. Then he pushed his sunglasses down onto his nose and hopped into the passenger's seat as Coz gunned the engine, clearly showing off. I waved, as the car slowly turned around in our driveway, but I could still hear them talking as it crawled off down the sandy track.

"Will there be redwoods?" Thom wondered aloud. "I fucking love redwoods, some of the oldest living creatures on earth. There's a National Park, and there's forest marked on it, so I presume that there will be."

"Actually, the oldest living creature on earth is thought to be a Quaking Aspen colony in Utah," Colin corrected, like a living encyclopaedia. "Although it's a clonal organism, it's estimated to be about 80,000 years old. A bit far to drive, though."

"Yes, but that doesn't count if it's not one tree. What's the oldest single tree?"

"9000 year old spruce in Norway, I believe."

Once they were out of sight, I walked back into the house and sat down, staring at the sea. Why did everything always have to be so complicated? Why couldn't anything ever just be straightforward and simple? I made myself a cup of tea, but barely drank it, just sitting, watching the waves breaking ever closer and closer to the house as the tide came in. For a terrible moment, I had a sudden vision that they might not stop, that the tide would never turn out again, and they would just march closer and closer until the entire house was swamped, and I was drowned, just swept out to sea and carried away. And then, for another moment, that didn't actually seem like that terrible a fate.

No, stop it, I told myself. That's morbid as hell. Things aren't that bad, there will be a way through this, like there is a way through everything. You just need to sit down and think and puzzle your way through it. And at that moment, I realised just how long it had been since I was able to sit down by myself and really think about everything. When was the last time I'd been alone? Months. The crazed business of the tour, then the buzzing crowd at the house in Silverlake, and then the intense intimacy of the weeks I'd spent out at Solitas with Thom. I loved being with Thom, I felt so at ease with him, so natural, like we just flowed into one another - and yet I could not remember the last time I had been able to listen to my own thoughts.

For a minute, I was tempted to call in sick to the studio just to enjoy the luxury of a day alone, by myself, but then remembered what shaky ground Adie and I had parted on, and knew that I had to go in. Come on, girl, pull yourself together, take a shower and get dressed, and drag yourself down to LA. Raising the mug to my lips, I tried to take a sip of tea, but realised it had gone ice cold. How long had I been sitting here, staring at the ocean? Glancing up at the clock, I realised an hour had gone by since Thom and Coz had left, and cursed myself for my distraction. Better get a move on.

I drove back down to LA to face my band again with a heavy heart. But when I got to the studio, I found the place deserted. Come on, this was absurd, they could not have finished mixing the album without me, could they? I didn't dare go next door and ask Nigel if he'd seen my bandmates, so instead I went back to the office and asked the manager.

"Didn't expect to see you in today," she chirped. "I though you lot were off filming a video in the desert this weekend."

"Video?" I asked stupidly, pulling my phone out of my pocket and switching it on. There was no point in wasting the battery having it on, out in Solitas where there was no phone reception. "Shit, no, I don't think I'm involved with that." But even as I spoke, a series of text messages dropped into my inbox from Adie.

Shamefaced, I made my way back to the studio and sat at the mixing desk by myself, trying not to remember that this was probably the very chair where Adie and Cherry had been making out. Opening my phone, I faced the messages from Adie.

 

> Where R U, Luce? Have u forgotten about the video? Mizz Ting flew in last night with the costumes she's made for us and they are AWESOME. I know ur mad at me, but just put it aside, this is going to be amazing. If you're not at that Silverlake house by 10, we're going to drive out to the desert for the video shoot without you.

 

> It's quarter past ten now! where the fuck r u? Jesus fucken Christ, Luce. You off with Thom again and you forget your band and the rest of your fucken life? You need to get your priorities straight, girl. Get out here. Now.

 

> I guess you're not coming. U really mad, huh? IDGI

 

I stared at my phone. It was completely unlike me to forget something that important. Or had I forgotten, or had they just forgotten to tell me? I felt so detached, not being in the house in Silverlake any more, I hadn't even known that Mizz Ting was flying out. And then I got angry. Why did it have to be like this? Why did I always feel like I had to choose between Thom and my band? It wasn't even Thom that was forcing me to make the decision this time, it was fucking Adie and his forgetting to tell me pretty crucial things.

Somehow I managed to sit around the studio for another hour, going through the mixes to listen to what they'd done, and my heart sank in my chest. It was good. It was really good. They didn't even need me any more. I had just been the songwriter, and once that bit was done, they could do it all without me. I burned myself a CD of the latest mixes, then walked back out to the car, pondering my future. Should I even bother to text Adie? Was there even phone reception out in the desert? Should I try to catch up with them - well, shit, he hadn't even bothered telling me which desert they were in. How many fucking deserts were there in Southern California? Taking out my phone, I composed a snide message and hit send.

 

> Sorry, Adie, you know there's no phone reception up in Solitas. Maybe if you'd told me of your video shooting plans MORE THAN A DAY IN ADVANCE I might have been able to join you, huh? Remember how you used to accuse me and Thom of going off in a private world that excluded you? Well, how come now you and Cherry are together, I feel like I'm not even in my own band any more?

 

It didn't make me feel any better, in fact it might have made me feel worse. The idea of fighting with Adie felt sickening, like fighting with my sister used to make me feel before we moved away from one another. Was that it, was the band going to break up now? I hated videos, I hated being photographed, I hated the whole major label Hollywood circus that our band seemed to be becoming, but Christ, it hurt me that they hadn't even bothered telling me. Or had they told me, and I had just forgotten, because I had too much on my mind with Thom?

My phone bleated in my hand, and there was another message from Adie.

 

> Sorry Luce. It's been such a fucking hassle recently with trying to get everything ready for the album and everything. I honestly thought I told you weeks ago. If it slipped my mind, I'm sorry for everything I said. But we're out in Colora Valley for the rest of the weekend, ask Mariko if you don't know how to get here. See you soon? Please?

 

It was mid afternoon by the time I left LA. I drove for hours, up into mountains as the sun set behind me, then down into a valley on the other side, the air turning acrid and dry as the car left the cool of the hills. There was the desert, stretching off into the distance, silvery under the harsh sunlight, and just about visible in the distance was a camp, almost the size of a small village, where several filming trucks and a flock of tents had been pitched together around a large flaming campfire. But as I drove into it, I realised that filming was still in progress, and had to veer off to try to get out of the shot.

Wow, this was a proper, full-on Hollywood video shoot, with several cameras, at three different angles. I didn't even want to know how much it was all costing Capitol, trying to remember if our points on the album came out before or after recoupable expenses.

"Lucy! You made it!" called out a tall, handsome actor, dressed in strange kind of leather and tarnished metal helmet that looked slightly uncomfortable in the heat. It took me a moment to realise it was actually Adie underneath the costume, looking like a cross between a Shogun warlord and a Native American warrior.

"Well, yeah," I shrugged, walking towards my bandmates and staring at their outlandish get-ups. "Do I have to dress like that? You lot look like extras from the Road Warrior. I thought Mizz Ting was doing the costumes."

A familiar head of silvery hair appeared at the door to one of the trailers. "I am. And we needed to establish thematic differences between the conditions in the camp, and the ethereal world of the dream sequence later on."

I shrieked, ran over, and threw my arms around Mizz Ting. "Ethereal dream sequence? Involving silver sequins and metal bikinis if I know you."

"Were you really expecting anything less? At least Cherry will wear my designs, instead of complaining that people might see her nipples," she teased.

It was like walking into a Hollywood film set, completely disorienting, going from the peacefulness of the ocean and our house, to what was being set up as essentially a giant rave in the desert. I could only catch glimpses of Cherry through the action, but she looked incredible. Mizz Ting had dreamed up a costume that had transformed her from an ordinary teenager into an otherworldly creature, like an ethereal version of one of Sleep Furiously's space-jellyfish.

"It's supposed to be like Close Encounters of the Third Kind meets The Road Warrior at Burning Man," Tingie shrugged by way of explanation. "I tried telling them to keep it simple, but when Joakim - the director - and Jenny started tossing ideas around, I knew we were going to end up on a soundstage out in the desert with fifty foot cellophane tentacles being blown about by the wind."

"Jenny? Who the hell is Jenny?" I asked, wondering who else had got involved in the creative direction of this project that was supposed to be my band.

"Oops, sorry. Cherry. She hates it when we call her Jenny, doesn't she?" Tingie laughed.

"Jenny? Her name is really Jennifer?" I started to giggle, but we were interrupted by a group of very dirty extras dressed as desperadoes pushing their way past us out of the make-up van. I was struck with a sudden fierce nostalgia for my friends and bandmates, wishing that I could have witnessed Cherry and Tingie coming up with mad ideas together and trying on clothes round the pool of that Silverlake house.

The extras were arranged, the music was cued up, the make-up artist ran out to where Cherry was standing to dust her face with powder again, and then filming started again. It was incredibly to watch, our music booming out of huge speakers on either side as Cherry drew herself up to her full height, pointed her incredibly blue eyes towards the cameras and started to mime along with a track I had heard a million times before - and yet somehow never really _heard_ until tonight. What a long, odd process it had been. It felt like only a few days ago, Cherry and I had been sitting on the deck of the swimming pool at the house in Silverlake, as she told me about some crazy dream she'd had a few nights before, and I plucked notes out of the air and tried to play them on a temperamental Roland. Yet it had been months, now, as we had slowly written the song down, fleshed it out, arranged it, recorded it, and now, here in the desert, Cherry was performing it to the cameras.

And I realised then, that I had never seen Cherry _perform_ before. Hell, I knew she could sing, I had known that from the first time she opened her mouth. But the way she opened her eyes and looked the camera full in the face, and she projected her entire personality with such force that the desert, the army of desperadoes and hordes of film people might not have even existed - still, it surprised me, hitting me with an almost physical sensation, like the first time I ever saw a Madonna video, and I suddenly realised _that girl is a star_. This album, this thing that we had been struggling over for the past few months, this thing was no longer under my control, either. This wasn't going to be big like Axiom N Atom had been big - a couple of thousand records sold in Japan and blog hype and some slathering reviews in The Wire. This might well be Madonna big.

That scared me, and I suddenly wanted Thom's reassuring arms around me, and his reassuring cynicism to prick my bubble and tell me that it might not really happen, and that that would be fine, too. But what if it did, I thought to myself? What if it did?

"Cup of tea?" suggested a voice behind me, and I turned to see Tingie holding out a thermos.

"Thanks, that's lovely."

"That girl's a sensation," Tingie observed, blowing on her own drink to cool it. "You and Adie always did have exquisite taste in music. Thank you so much for ringing me and asking me to get involved. I can't even tell you how the Loophole has changed my life, now."

"You and me both, Tingie," I sighed. "In more ways than one."

"How are things with Furious? You two still in lovey-lovey love-love land?" I liked the way she still called Thom Furious, after everything, it reminded me of where we'd all come from, before all the craziness.

"Oh god, yes, but..."

"I don't like the sound of that _but_."

"It's complicated."

"It's always been complicated with you two."

"No, but I mean... I keep hoping that if we stick it out, we'll finally get to a place where it stops being complicated, and we just get to be happy together. But every time I think we find that place, some other complication pops up..."

"What _now_?" Tingie rolled her eyes in an exaggerated gesture of disdain.

I took a deep breath, and tried to spit it out, knowing that Tingie was the most tolerant, accepting human being on earth, but still afraid of her judgement. "Did you know he has a kid?"

"Of course he has a kid," she shrugged, utterly nonchalant. "He wrote one of the songs on Hail To The Thief about him, everybody knows that." She paused, observing my embarrassed face. "Did you not know?"

I shook my head. "I'm not sure I know how to deal with this."

"You deal with it the same way you deal with anything. You act like an adult, and you take people how they are, kids and all. He gets a good lawyer, he sorts out custody arrangements - it's not rocket science. People do this all the time."

"Yeah, but his ex is coming to LA, and bringing their kid, to see his father, in a couple of weeks. And I really do not feel up to coping with that."

"And why ever not?" Tingie snorted. "His ex is his ex for a reason. And you're with him now, for a reason. You just gotta remember that reason."

"But what if the reason he's not with her is not me, but because she was out in Italy for a year? And what if, now she's back, he decides he wants to get back with her?" It wasn't until the words were out of my mouth that I realised how afraid I was of them.

"Well, you just don't let that happen. You just carry on being your fabulous self that he loves, and he won't even think of it."

"I wish I had your confidence, Tingie, but I don't."

"Fake it till you make it. What do you think I did?" She put her arm around me and gave me a quick squeeze, bending down to press her head against the side of mine. "But seriously, what you need to not do, is get weird and insecure about it. Because if you make a fuss about it, you are going to drive him off to the easier option."

"I know... but I don't want to be... just an option. I wish I felt secure in this relationship, but I don't. I wish I felt like his equal - like her equal - but I don't. I wish I felt like I was the slightest bit in control of this thing I'm in - but I don't. And it scares me that I am so much in love with him that I don't have the slightest clue where we are going, I just know I'm going there with him."

"And you know what? I bet he feels the same way."

"Do you really think so?"

"Do you know what I think you need?" Tingie shuffled back into the gloom of her trailer, then reappeared with a bottle of very potent looking tequila, which she tipped into the remains of my tea. "And I think you'll be fine."

The filming seemed to be breaking up for the night, as a light wind had blown up from the wrong direction, which was wrecking havoc blowing sand against the cameras. And slowly, as the crowd dispersed, Tingie went off to try to help Cherry down from the platform where she and her dress were suspended. I swallowed the tea, feeling the booze seeping into my veins, then went back into the trailer and retrieved the bottle. A few minutes later, Tingie arrived, helping Cherry into the trailer as she teetered on her stunningly beautiful, but ridiculously inappropriate shoes.

"So you made it after all. I knew you would," Cherry crowed as Tingie set her down and went about starting to dismantle the costume. There was something about her voice that made me wary, though, a slight edge behind her chirpiness, but the next question made me bristle. "Are you still mad about me and Adie?"

"No, actually I'm happy for you," I insisted. "Adie needs a good woman, a really special woman, and you are nothing if not special."

"Yup - special is one way of putting it," Cherry laughed, trying to unwrap something that looked like iridescent bubble wrap from her head. Maybe I was just imagining the coldness in her voice, maybe it was just me being paranoid. "Though I am still fucking mad at you, for telling me Thom was in fucking Coldplay. I'm not stupid, you know," she insisted. "You treat me like I'm an idiot because I grew up in East Buttfuck, Nowheresville, and I might be ignorant of all that cool English shit that you guys know, but that does not make me dumb."

"I'm sorry. Thom has a weird sense of humour, he was just playing with you. And, well... things are complicated for him right now. Maybe he didn't want to be Thom from Radiohead for a couple of months, maybe he just wanted to be someone else for a while."

Cherry turned towards me and eyed me, carefully, almost suspiciously, as if she didn't entirely believe what I was saying. "He's the most famous rock star on earth. Why would he want to be someone else?"

"Maybe that's why?" I shrugged, but Cherry just looked at me as if I were mad.

"My entire fucking life, I have dreamed of being someone else - someone other than Jenny Stone of East Buttfuck, Nowheresville. my entire life, I have dreamed of being a rock star. So don't you try to tell me that rock stars spend all day dreaming of being someone else. I don't believe you."

Who was it that Thom was dreaming of being? I didn't even know any more, and right then, I wondered if Thom knew himself. Who was he? The middle aged father, up to his elbows in diapers and teething rings? The rock star he played onstage? The cool boyfriend who DJed at clubs in Shoreditch? Then again, who was I? I seemed to have lost more selves than I had ever knew I had, somewhere on the road between South London and LA. Taking Tingie's bottle of tequila, I poured myself another shot, and tried very hard to stop thinking about it.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thom's ex brings his son to visit him in LA, Lucy starts truly questioning her life choices.

Three days of filming in the desert. Three days of dust and sand everywhere, in my mouth, in my eyes, up my nose, and in places I didn't even want to contemplate how sand got up. Three days of checking my boots for snakes and scorpions before I put them on. Three days of blistering heat during the day, so hot that we didn't even sweat, we just found salt crystals dusted over our arms, followed by three nights so cold I could see my breath in the tent. Three days of filming, which, despite what anyone tells you about how glamourous it all is, was actually 30 seconds of excitement at a time, followed by hours and hours of standing around waiting for something to happen. Three days of uncomfortable leather clothes that Tingie insisted I wear because she said I looked good. I thought I looked absurd, but when I emailed a test photo to Thom, he emailed me back almost immediately and asked if I could steal the costume and wear it home, maybe to bed, which made me blush and laugh and swell with pride, all in quick succession.

And three days of feeling awkward around Adie and Cherry, and feeling like a third wheel in my own band. But then again, was this how Adie had felt, back in the loft in Shoreditch, watching Thom and I flirting over the mixing desk? But Thom and I, at least we had only flirted, we had never snogged between takes, or canoodled round the camp fire, or made such obvious noises shagging in a paper-thin tent that everyone else laughed nervously and turned up the boombox.

I still didn't like having my photo taken, and being filmed was even worse - but fortunately Tingie came up with the idea of having me wear a helmet that covered my face like a mask for most of the sequences I was in. And I did have to admit, when I saw the rushes in the evening, that Adie and I, even with our faces half obscured, made a striking and imposing pair. And yet, over that weekend, something had definitely changed. We went from being Adie's and my band, that Cherry was singing for, to Adie and Cherry's band, that I wasn't quite sure what I was doing with.

We drove back to LA in a convoy on Sunday night. I drove by way of Silverlake, because I was giving Tingie a lift, boxes of her costumes piled high on the back seat of my car. Although I felt such a tug when I saw the bungalow, thinking of what happy times I'd spent there, it was clear when I helped her carry the boxes in, that it was no longer my home. She'd taken over my room, and even in the course of a weekend, she'd stamped her mark on it so thoroughly that it was no longer recognisable. And though my heart tugged at the invitation to stay and have dinner, and do shots of tequila and maybe have a jam session with Steve and Teebs later, when I texted Thom there was no reply, which made me think that he was back in the dune house. And after three days of sleeping alone, I just really, really craved being wrapped in his arms, and feeling the soft fuzz of his beard against my cheek as I slept. So I left them to their wrap party, and drove the long, lonely highway up to Solitas, wondering the whole way if it was the right decision, feeling like my band, my friends and my old life - my new old life - were all slipping away.

But when I pulled into the driveway, I saw that the light in the house was on, and felt a warmth in my chest at realising that yes, Thom was home. I parked the car and made my way inside, calling out "Are you home?"

There was no answer, in fact the house was strangely quiet as I walked in, and for a terrible moment, I wondered if I'd left the light on by accident, and Thom was just gone, never to return. My heart clenched in my chest, full of unspoken things I knew I needed to discuss with him, but wondered if I'd ever have to guts to bring up. Would I ever feel comfortable, in my own relationship?

But then I heard a steady, muffled ticka-ticka, like the sound of really loud techno leaking from closed-back headphones, and I made my way up the ladder to the bedroom, to find Thom sprawled across the bed, his nose buried in his laptop. He was so completely engrossed in his music he didn't even notice me, his head nodding, fingers tapping at the side of the keyboard. And I just stood watching him, trying to get up the courage to catch his attention, my heart aching with things I needed to say. Yet how on earth could I ever dare to interrupt him? He was my favourite musician on earth; who knew what amazing symphony of sound I might jolt out of his ear by distracting him, like the unwelcome visitor from Porlock who snatched Kubla Khan's pleasure dome from the poet's mind.

I don't know how long I stood there, just watching him work, until I decided to turn around and climb back down the stairs, and go for a swim in the sea, instead, to try and wash the dust from my body. But the motion distracted him, and he suddenly looked up, surprised, then smiled, pleasure dawning across his face as he saw me, and reached up to remove the headphones from his ears.

"How long have been standing there?" he laughed softly, his eyes twinkling.

"Not long," I lied. "You looked so engrossed I didn't want to disturb you."

"You _need_ to disturb me," he insisted with a guilty smile. "Otherwise I get completely carried away, forget where I am and what I'm doing." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial hush. "Rachel won't let me work on headphones at home, she says it distracts me away from family life."

My confidence crumbled. I knew he wasn't aiming to hurt, but he could not have shattered my self belief more if he had tried. I would just never measure up to Rachel, would I? And yet, Tingie's words echoed in my head. _You just carry on being your fabulous self that he loves_. Desperately, I tried to dig my way back to my lost self. "I don't mind. Your music is important," I shrugged.

"It's not that important. Certainly not more important than a good shag," he teased, pushing the laptop off the bed onto the floor and looking up at me with hungry eyes. "Come here," he growled, patting the bed beside him.

"I need to change, I've got sand in my boots, in my clothes, in my hair I've got sand in my everything." Sex was the last thing on my mind at that moment.

"I have no objections to you coming here without clothes." In fact, he rolled over, onto his back, grinning up at me as he folded his arms behind his head, watching me as I pulled off my dusty jeans. I could see his T-shirt riding up over the thin, sunburned band of his stomach, and tried to fight down the familiar lust.

"How was Big Sur? Did you find Ferlinghetti's cabin?"

"Nooo," Thom groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Cozzie got us very, very lost. We ended up in this weird, extremely posh hippie commune where we got chased out by New Agers. Coz thought they were Scientologists, but I reckon they were some other cult - EST or something. Either way, we backed our way out and found a decent motel in the end. How was your video?"

"Ugh, I am never making a video again." I complained, pulling my jumper up over my head, then removing my bra and draping it over the pile of filthy clothes. Christ, there was even sand dribbling out from the cups of my underwires. "God, there is sand caked under my tits. How on earth did it get there?"

"Come here, I'll get it out," Thom offered, sitting up, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me down to the bed, gently pushing his hands up underneath my breasts, though he seemed more interested in copping a feel than in actually removing any dust. Soon, he had wrapped his legs around me too, and was moving against me urgently. "After three days of listening to Coz snore, I tell you, this is so much nicer," he murmured into my hair, sending his kitten-like tongue into the folds of my ear, though I was worried he would find sand and grit in there, too. "I missed your soft body in the dark next to me. Don't ever go away again," he muttered, pushing his way towards me as if he could climb inside me, parting my legs with his knees so I could feel his cock straining towards me. 

Wrapped in his arms again, I felt the doubt finally begin to recede. Oh god, yes, this had definitely been the right decision, I thought, as I lay back and let myself go, feeling him working his way inside me, his hands grabbing great chunks of my arse as he pulled me onto him. If my band were being awkward, the hell with them. What did it matter if Adie and Cherry were blocking me out, if I had Thom pulling me into the circle of his arms and flicking his hips in those sharp, short bursts that made my clitoris go mad? I kissed him back fiercely, sucking his tongue into my mouth as I worked my hands into his hair, pushing his head back against the mattress to reveal the soft white expanse of his neck, so tempting to rake my teeth across, making him whine and moan and buck up against me even harder.

"I won't go away again," I promised, catching him between my thighs and squeezing him, feeling the gentle throb in my vagina that meant orgasm was near.

"If I had my way, we'd never leave this cabin, just two lovers trapped in the dunes like a Japanese movie," he replied as I raised myself up on my elbows, and he bent over to catch one of my breasts in his mouth.

"Just you and me, and no one else?" I didn't say the rest - no Coz, no Adie, no Cherry, No Jack, no Rachel, no Noah...

"Yes," he murmured into my nipple, his soft lips stretching it out as he pulled away, then sucked me back in. I ground against him harder, feeling my body catch fire with pleasure. "You and me, far away from the rest of the world."

I showered his face with kisses as orgasm broke across my body, then let him pick me up and toss me over on my back, pushing up into me at the angle he liked as he chased after his own climax, just two sweaty bodies grappling in the cool night air. And I held him afterwards, kissing the tip of his nose gently as I played with his hair, pushing the long hairs at the front down across his forehead, smoothing out his unruly eyebrows and combing my fingers through his beard, which had grown long and slightly unkempt in the wilderness.

But I felt a trickle of sadness, even as the moon started to rise through the open window, over the ocean, bathing the room in a soft light that turned his huge eyes silvery-grey. "We can't hide away forever."

"We can try."

I thought suddenly of what I'd told Cherry, back in the desert - I had been half joking, but I had struck on the truth. When Thom was with me, he got to be someone else for a while. I moved my hand from his beard, and traced his mouth with my fingers, even as he raised his lips to kiss my fingertips. "I love you, you know that, right? You and all the people you sometimes pretend to be, but mostly just you."

And he smiled, painfully, and looked for a moment as if he were about to cry. And for a horrible minute and a half, the bottom fell out of my world, as he didn't say it back. But then his eyes crinkled and he rolled towards me, burying his face in my hair as he kissed my shoulder. "I don't think you can even begin to guess how much I love you. This is like nothing I've ever known."

I pulled him towards me, and enfolded him in my arms, his face deep between my breasts as I hugged him so tight I almost couldn't breathe. And as I fell asleep, I thought to myself, _you know, this could actually work out alright_.

 

\-----

 

I didn't go into the studio the next day. They didn't need me - they had dozens of people around them now, to tell them what the record should sound like. And I wanted to be with Thom - needed to be with Thom, to make up for the weekend apart, not even fucking, but just walking together on the dunes, touching one another tenderly, sharing both every passing observation, and also our deepest thoughts. We talked about children, about how I'd wanted them, but Jack always found a reason not to. About how he had been terrified to bring a child into the world, about how he had thought he would be an absolutely rubbish father, and yet he had been utterly surprised, both by how incredibly natural and instinctual it was, but also how impossibly difficult.

And then he looked at me as I dribbled my feet in the sand, and tried to tempt a razor clam out of its hole with a short stick, and he utterly slayed me with what he said next. "If you and me had a baby, what do you reckon it would look like? Do you think it would look like Adie, soft brown skin with freckles, and strawberry blond hair?"

I tried to ignore what he was saying at first. "Adie isn't strawberry blond, he's proper ginger."

"Yeah, but I'm blond. Do you reckon _our_ child would have your hair, or my hair?" He smiled as he said it, reaching out to touch my hip, squeezing gently.

I couldn't ignore it that time, straightening up to gaze up into his face. "Do you actually want another child, or are you just missing Noah?"

He frowned, but his face was perfectly guileless. "I want another child. I want to have a child with you."

My gut felt like it was twisting around inside, as if my ovaries were making a dash for it, to strangle my brain. But mostly, I just thought _I'm not ready_. I don't know where this is going, the two of us, it's still too new, too unformed. I don't even know where we'll be in nine months time, let alone eighteen years. I thought, oddly, of the loft in Shoreditch, of rehearsing, of recording, of the gigs we'd played, in Hoxton, in Croydon and even Japan. I could not tour Japan with a baby, that would never happen. And I thought of me, waiting at home, like Rachel, with a child, while Thom went out on tour, and wondered, if there were a pretty girl in the next support band, could I ever trust him?

"I don't know that I'm ready yet," I confessed, rather too nervously, as Thom stepped back.

"I didn't mean, like, tomorrow. I meant eventually," he hedged, though the disappointment still shone through around the edge of his hopeful smile.

"Well, we can talk about that eventually, then." I licked my lips then took a deep breath. "When is Rachel coming to LA?"

Thom closed his eyes to cover the shock on his face, but it didn't help, even as he set his mouth into a straight line. "Next week." His voice was climbing up the octave, as it always did when he got tense. "Will you drive me down, to meet them?"

"I would have thought you'd want to see them by yourself." My voice was now as tight as his was.

"You don't have to meet them. I would just like you to drive me down, and pick me up, afterwards."

"Why? Are you afraid that you won't come back, if I don't go with you?" I shot back.

He didn't answer, his blue eyes just bored into mine, as cold as the ocean. "Will you just do that, for me?"

I bit my lip to keep myself from crying aloud. "Yes." I would do anything he asked, really. But he didn't have to expect me to like it.

 

\-----

 

I said I would go into the studio while they were together, so as not to waste time or hang around, but I knew that I'd be useless. But it would surely be better to be useless with my friends, and with a hundred distractions, than to be useless, sitting around by myself, obsessing over what they were doing, right? I had no right to be jealous, I knew that. And yet still, I was seethingly, achingly jealous, as Thom dressed, very carefully, and even trimmed his beard in the tiny mirror, fussing over his hair to get it to stand up right, and I couldn't help but recall how a few months ago, he'd made the effort to get his hair perfect for me in a lift in Japan.

I told myself I had nothing to worry about. He had told me I had nothing to worry about. We had made love tenderly the night before, and held each other as we fell asleep, whispering that we loved each other, and yet still, my heart thumped in my chest as if I were having palpitations, as we drove down the Pacific Coast Highway in silence, towards the expensive beach hotel where Rachel was staying. Respectful of their privacy, I parked a little way up the street, so I wouldn't have to watch them together, I could just turn the car around and back away slowly - and yet still, I sat in the car watching as Thom stalked quickly down the street towards the front entrance of the hotel. And I saw his face light up as he broke into a trot, and followed his line of sight to see the small boy come bolting out of the door, and launch himself towards his father with an audible cry of "Daddy!"

I saw Thom bend down and pick up the small, tiny blond figure, his face a childish mirror of his father's joy, and I put the key in the ignition and turned it, and tried to turn the car around before I could see the petite brunette step out from behind the door and join them.

I got no work done. I had known I wouldn't, and yet I still felt useless. I sat in the studio, on the leather sofa at the back of the mixing room, and I stared at the blocks of music as they went past on the computer screen, but they meant nothing to me. Adie and Cherry gave up asking questions after the first few dazed responses, but Tingie persisted, sitting beside me, trying to show me rushes from the video on her laptop. But I could make no sense of the plot, staring at the brash, bold woman in the leather bustier and terrifying helmet, her waist-length dreadlocks swept up into a spray of hair shooting from the top of her head, and wondered how on earth I was supposed to believe that that was really me. She looked fearless and powerful, in command of an army of desperadoes, but I just felt desperate and terrified. Thom wasn't with his son, I just knew it. He was with his ex, they were cavorting and fucking in expensive hotel rooms, where the security guards never bothered or harassed her. I could see them together, pictured him with his face buried in her thin, boyish chest, her pearly white skin so different from mine. I closed my eyes and all I could see was him labouring between her thighs, his cock sliding back and forth inside her as she pulled him back to her. Fifteen years, they had been together. Since art school, through thick and thin, through feast and famine, how were fifteen years going to be overcome by a few months of shagging in a beach house in California?

The hours seemed to drag by, and yet when 7 o'clock came round, I still wasn't ready to face them again. I didn't want to see him with his family - and I didn't want to see _her_. And yet still, somehow I was early, parked just up the street from the hotel, from where I could easily see the doors. And every time they opened, I jumped, even when it was just wealthy young surfers or older businessmen on their way to the beach. The clock ticked, turned 7, then 2 past, 5 past, 10 past. They were late. Or perhaps he'd changed his mind, decided to stay. I picked up my phone, checked for messages, but there were none. I wanted to throw up with nerves, but there was no food in my stomach, I'd been too nervous to eat all day.

I was about to give in and send a desperate, pleading text message, when the door opened, and a familiar thatch of blond hedgehog hair appeared in the gap, carrying the tiny tow-headed child in his arms. The small dark woman followed, but thankfully she stood with her back to me. Neither of them had seen me - they were both too engrossed with the boy. But finally, he hugged his son close, kissed him lavishly all over his face, and handed him back to his mother. He bent down, embraced her, and my heart pounded in my throat, but no, he deposited a quick kiss on her cheek, and then the pair of them disappeared back into the hotel.

For a few minutes, Thom just stood outside, his face distant, his chest heaving as if catching his breath, then his shoulders slumped, and he started to look about, as if wondering where the car was. I switched the engine on, and pulled up to the curb to collect him, trying to smile, though I was choking back too many emotions to even name.

"Was it alright?" I asked desperately.

"Yeah, it was OK. I'm just... I've got something in my eye." He rubbed his eyes, but it was obvious that he was crying.

I reached out a hand, touched his shoulder through his leather jacket, tentatively, then started to rub, trying to transmit my love through the movements of my fingertips. He leaned forward, then moved his hand up to join mine, and squeezed it gently. "It's OK. If you need to cry, cry. There's tissues in the glove compartment..."

"God, you're so sensible, you think of everything." He scrambled in the box, pulled one out, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, then tried to pull himself together. "Do you want to go to dinner? Maybe sushi?"

"Not really, no." My voice cracked as I said it, and he suddenly looked up at me, studying me carefully, as if realising for the first time how worried I had been. But I looked away, putting the car into gear and pulling out into traffic.

"I barely saw her. She was out for most of the day, visiting friends at UCLA. Noah and I had the whole afternoon to ourselves, man to man chat on the beach." He paused. "We got ice creams and made sand castles and talked about Thomas the Tank Engine. He loves Thomas because..." And here, his voice cracked. "Because he reminds him of his old Dad."

"He misses you as much as you miss him."

"Fuck, do I miss him." As I stopped at a traffic light, he suddenly collapsed into tears, great heaving sobs. "I'm missing so much of his life. He's so fucking big now, I can't even believe it. Much bigger than I was at that age. And he can talk, properly, like a little man, like there's a little person in there, that can carry on conversations, tell me about stuff... and he's growing so fast, and I'm fucking missing it all."

"It's not your fault. You've been on tour," I assured him, wishing I could do something, could pull over and stop the car, throw my arms around Thom and get him to stop crying, but the traffic was too heavy.

"Yeah, that was before, but not now. This is my fault now."

"Or my fault," I said quietly.

"I didn't say that, I would never say that."

"You didn't have to."

"Look, it's not your fault. I chose to come to California. When's your album finished? We can go back, we can get a flat in Oxford... I'll start ringing estate agents tomorrow."

I felt myself tearing in two, one half of me staying in LA with my band, going on tour to promote the record, travelling the world - and the other half following Thom back to Oxford like a lapdog. I hated Oxford, I hated the chocolate box houses and the dreaming spires and the whole sleepy atmosphere of intellectual unreality. I had never wanted to live there, among those hordes of braying rich white students. Yet if that was where Thom's family lived, would I have much of a choice?

It was an intense car-ride home, the silence hanging heavy between us. We stopped in Solitas to pick up groceries, but when we got back to the house, Thom merely picked at his food, claiming that he had eaten all afternoon with his son. He wasn't even interested in sitting outside, watching the ocean, he just crawled off to bed, claiming he wanted to read. But as soon as I came upstairs, he clung to me, slipping his arms up around my waist and under my breasts as I tried to concentrate on my own book. Did he want to make love? How could he?

And yet I found myself giving in, succumbing to his kisses, lying back and letting him assert control, roughly, over my body. And then I thought of the casual way that he had hugged her, the kiss he had deposited on her cheek, and I didn't feel quite so passive any more. I wanted to claim him back, wanted to mark his body as mine again - and then suddenly my insecurities ran away with me, sniffing at every part of him to make sure he did not smell of another woman's skin. There was a small bruise on the top of his arm, the kind a careless child might leave - or the mark a woman might leave as she grabbed at him. My imagination ran away with me, I wanted to comb through his pubic hair, searching for stray stray brown hairs, trying to pick them apart from his blond and my black. I wanted him inside me - but then suddenly I thought of him inside her, and I wanted to push him away and scream at him. And yet instead, I kept quiet and hung on, though I felt far, far, far too tense to orgasm.

"Are you going to come?" he asked breathlessly, as I stopped struggling and just lay back, not even trying to rub myself against him.

"I don't think I can," I confessed.

"Do you hate me that much?"

"I don't hate you, Thom, I'm just... I'm scared."

"You have no reason to be scared," he insisted, cupping my face in his hands and looking deep into my eyes as he finally shuddered and spurted inside me.

And yet I said nothing in reply, I just rolled off him, turned my face to the wall and tried to sleep. Sleep didn't come, though. I tossed and turned, and the few hours of sleep I did get were riddled with terrible dreams, as slim, petite brunettes stalked through my nightmares. And in the morning, I was a wreck, staying in bed, even as Thom went outside to take a shower, then came back upstairs to find me still rolled in a ball.

"Are you going to drive me down?" he asked, his eyes desperate.

"I can't, I'm exhausted, I'm a wreck."

"Are you not even going down to the studio?"

"What's the point? They don't need me. I'm useless anyway."

"You're not useless. I need you. Please get up, and just come with me," he pleaded.

"Thom, I can't." I rolled back over and faced him, so he could see the dark circles under my eyes, the red where I had been crying. "Please don't ask me this again. You can do this on your own."

"You don't want to see him? You don't want to meet my son?"

" _Thom_." It was so unfair, what he wanted of me. How could he even ask?

For a long time, there was silence between us, as he looked at me, and I looked away, down at the floor. And then finally he sighed, deeply, and stood up, making his way back down the ladder. "I don't know what time I'll be back," he called after me, even as his head disappeared, as if that would change my mind.

"I'll be alright," I lied.

"Oh, fuck it," he muttered, stomping across the floor, then he slammed the door and was gone.

For a second, I was tempted to run after him, to run out to the car and grab his hands and pull him back and entreat with him, beg him to reconsider, tell him that I'd come with him, that I'd do anything to make him stay. Would it have made a difference? Would it have changed what was to come? I would never know, would I? But I stayed in bed, balled up my hands into fists, and stuffed them into my eyes to stop the tears from running down my face.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thom's ex drops a bombshell that forces both Thom and Lucy to make new choices over what is the most important thing in their life: if Lucy chooses music, does that mean Thom will choose family?

Eventually, I dressed and went downstairs. I picked at the leftovers of the previous night's meal, then went for a desultory swim, though the tide was so far out it wasn't really worth the walk. I came back inside and flopped down on the sofa, then picked up Nigel's guitar that Thom had left casually lying against one of the chairs, tuned it up and then started to play. I hadn't played guitar in years, but it amazed me how quickly it came back, how my fingers shaped themselves into the right chords, and moved one to another.

The music flowed out of me with a force that surprised me, tumbling out of me almost violently. I found my laptop, and the input that Nigel had lent Thom, and plugged them in, then started structuring beats and rhythms around the gentle strum of the guitar riff. It was gentle music, achingly sad, and yet filled with a kind of beauty that I hadn't heard since those halting early days before Thom and I got together.

And I knew at that moment, the stuff that we were doing with Cherry - it was hack work. It was good, sure, it was catchy and slick and I had no doubt that it would sell well if backed up with the might of Capitol's marketing department. But the soul - the terror and the fear and the longing - was not in it, not like those early Axiom N Atom records. And not like the music that I was hearing welling up in my fingers now.

I sketched out the song as quickly as I could, then moved forward onto the next track. That one, too, flowed out of me, all the emotions welling up that I couldn't express to Thom - the fear, and yet also the love, the perfect, self-sacrificing, humbling love. I sketched in beats and a pumping heart of a bassline around it, with a few washes of synth pads like an early Aphex Twin song. I could hear the vocal melody in my head, so I dug out the microphone and sung in as much as I could figure out, though the words could wait until later. This song was good, it was even better than the first, I didn't even need Jack being rude in my ear to tell me that the urgency was there. The sun climbed high into the sky, then slid down the other side towards the ocean, and I carried on working on it.

Was there a third song in there? I picked up the guitar again and started to strum. Yes, there was. A whole EP, written in a single afternoon, had that really just happened? I worked obsessively, trying to sketch out the third tune, though my ears were tired, and I couldn't quite work out the harmonic structure on the chorus, but this one, too, was in the same haunting register as the first two. This was a thing, this was a whole thing that I had called into being almost by accident. I dug in the fridge, found some cheese and boiled some pasta, eating it straight out of the pan over the laptop as I worked, watching the sun set over the ocean and trying to capture the shifting purple-blue heaviness of the night sky in the angry yet resigned last tempest of the third song.

And I listened to all three songs, one after another, and I realised, this was good. This was something that I'd done on my own, without Adie, without those juddering basslines, and it was still good. It was 100% my own, and it was 100% beautiful.

And then I looked at the clock and saw that it was 9 o'clock at night, way after Noah's bedtime, and Thom was still not home. My heart caught in the back of my throat, but I had been somehow prepared. The music; I was soundtracking my own breaking heart. I was writing the songs that would get me through whatever was going to happen next. I put the headphones down, went into the kitchenette to make myself a cup of tea, then pulled a blanket round my shoulders and went out to sit on the bench, watching the tide rolling up towards the house, and wishing the waves would carry me away.

I don't know what time Thom got in. It was late; I had just about dozed off, curled in a corner of the bench. But then I heard him moving about in the house, and padded back through to join him.

"I didn't realise you were still awake," he explained, his face shining with guilt. My eyes slid over him, checking for evidence. Was his hair matted and flattened down at the back as if he'd been in bed? Did he have unfamiliar lipstick on his collar? Was that an insect bite on the curve of his neck or a tiny hickie? And yet he was still the same untouched boyfriend that had exited the house in such a huff that morning. The smell of a small child clung to him, but nothing of sex.

"I've been writing music. You should hear it, I think it might be really good." I picked up the headphones and held them out towards him, almost like a peace offering. Like, I know what's coming, and I accept it. Do your worst.

He put the headphones over his ears and sat down at the computer as I pressed play, and I watched the pain and guilt spread across his face as the incredibly sad music spilled, tinnily, from the leaking headphones. His face twisted, looked as if he might cry, and then took them from his ears. "It's beautiful, yes. It's amazing. This might even be the best thing you've ever done. But I can't listen to it."

"I'm sorry." I couldn't even look at him for fear I would start crying, too.

"Are you trying to make things worse? Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"I'm just trying to get through this, this is the way I cope, this is the way I've always coped." 

"Christ, this is payback for every song I've ever written about a girlfriend, isn't it? I loved it when you wrote songs about how much you loved me. But this... this tears my heart out, Lucy. Why am I making you this unhappy?"

"Why are you...? What have you...?" I paused, not even knowing how to frame the question. _Did you fuck her?_ That was all I wanted to know, really. Of course he had, the guilt all over his face made that perfectly clear. Thom's face was like a radio transmitter, he couldn't help but broadcast every emotion that crossed his mind. "Come on, just say it," I finally urged.

He took a deep breath then closed his eyes. "Rachel's pregnant."

"What?" Already? That was quick. He had impregnated her in an afternoon? Or had he been lying about barely seeing her yesterday? No, wait, that was not physically possible. "Since when? How far along is she?"

"Four and a half months." I started to count backwards on my fingers, but he volunteered the information. "Valentine's Day, when we were in Italy."

"You went from my bed to hers..."

"You and I didn't use a bed, if memory serves. We were in a convenient alcove in a grotty sex club in Berlin." He smiled at the memory, but I winced.

"Pregnant. She's keeping it, obviously, if she waited this late to tell you..." I felt the ground seem to shift under my feet, and not just from lack of food and sleep. Was that an earthquake? No, it was just my spinning head, the room was actually still, and Thom hadn't moved. But in my head, it felt like my entire world was falling down, the walls crumbling around me. "Well, you wanted another child."

"I wanted a child with you," he said softly, his face an unreadable mess of conflicting emotions. He stepped towards me, placed a hand on either arm, but I shrugged him off.

"Please don't."

"I'm sorry, I love you, I love you so much. Please tell me how to make this better. Please tell me how to make this work again." His face was cracking with desperation.

"I loved you, too. Oh, fuck, how much I loved you, Furious, but..."

"No, please. Not the past tense," Thom begged, but I could see in his eyes that he already knew.

"You love her. You love them, her and Noah, and this unborn baby, too. I can see it in your eyes. You have to go back to them, Thom. Though it fucking kills me to say this, as much as I loved you, Thom, you can not stay with me, you have got to go back to them."

"Loved. Why do you keep saying that? What happened to the present tense, the future tense?"

"There is no future tense, Thom, for us. Your partner, your child - your children. That's your future tense. I loved you, but we're just hiding from your real life. We cannot go on like this."

"You can't do this. You can't make my world just come tumbling down like this. Say you love me. Say you still love me. In the present tense. Please. Don't do this."

"I haven't done this," I protested, no longer trying to hold back the tears that were streaming down my face. "You've done this, Rachel has done this, your child - children, now - have done this. How can I be with you, when I know you want to be with them?"

"You're tearing me in two." He put his face into his hands, tugging at his hair violently. "What do I do, Lucy? What am I supposed to do? I love you so much, Lucy, it's like a kind of madness."

"Do you still love Rachel?"

"Of course I do." His voice cracked. "I never stopped loving her. But it's completely different. I've known Rachel since I was a _child_. We've grown up together. We've grown together, like a pair of old trees, like we share the same root system."

"But how can you love us both?"

"It's a different kind of love. With Rachel, we've grown so comfortably into one another, I can't imagine life without her. I don't even think I've been myself since I left her. Who I've been with you is someone new, someone I don't even know any more. I've surprised myself, again and again, who this new man is, the things he does. It's like I'm two people. The man I used to be still loves her. The man I am now loves you. Both of us, totally and completely."

"You're not making any sense, Thom. That doesn't sound like love, that does sound like madness."

His eyes looked up towards me, imploring. "Maybe I am mad. It would be easier."

"You think this is easy for me?"

"You're the one ending it."

"What else am I supposed to do? You can't _be_ with both of us. You want your family, I know you do."

"I do. I want my son... I ache for my son. And this new baby that has yet to be born, I don't even know him or her, but I love them already." His face shone with love and pride, then crumpled into pain again. "Christ, why is this so hard? How did this get so fucking heavy? I feel so trapped, no matter which way I turn."

"I'm setting you free, Thom. I love you, Thom. I will love you forever. But I have to set you free. I'm not breaking up with you, I'm giving you your freedom. Love... sometimes loving someone means accepting that you have to let them go. And I will love you forever, even if you choose them."

"Future tense," he sighed. I had nothing to say to that. "Will you stay tonight? Just give me one last night?"

"Yes." My voice was breaking.

"I don't even want to bang you. I just want to dance with you. One last time. What was that song that Khama always used to play? That we always danced to. That Lovers Rock song with the really deep bassline."

I went to the laptop, unplugged the headphones, then brought it up on iTunes.

"Come here," he said. "Come and wrap your arms around my waist, and rest your head on my shoulder. I feel invincible when you hold me like that, I feel unstoppable when we dance."

"We shouldn't do this," I sighed, even as I wrapped myself around him, feeling my head slip so naturally into the crook of his neck, the way his arms fit so perfectly around the small of my back.

"We shouldn't have done any of it. But we did anyway." His body shook for a moment as if he was going to break into tears, but then he steadied himself, laying his head against my hair as he started to sway gently to the music. "We really are ending something that feels this good." It was the first time he'd used first person plural, as if this was something he was accepting, realising that both of us had to agree to.

"But it's never been just a simple good, has it? It's always been complicated."

"Yes." I felt a slight wet patch on his shirt, and realised he had been crying, too - or maybe it was my tears. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we should leave this as a sweet and beautiful thing, that happened, but we had to leave behind."

"Yes," I agreed. "That's exactly right."

"I don't want to," he protested. "I want to fight, I want to kick and scream and argue you down, I want to keep it going. Why are you being so calm, while our world comes crashing down? Why aren't you fighting this?"

"Please don't. You're going to make this even harder if you fight." Even as I laid my head against his shoulder, I knew that if he pushed me, I would give in, my convictions crumbling in a moment.

"Do you just not love me enough to fight for me?"

"Thom, I love you more than you can ever know or understand. But I love you enough to want what's right for you, what you need, not what I selfishly want. You need to be with your family. You won't be happy unless you have them."

"I know." He clutched me closer, though. "I know you're right. It's just not fair." His voice wavered like his heart was breaking.

"Please don't make this so heavy, Thom, I can't take it. This is breaking my heart, too, you know." He didn't seem to understand that - or maybe he did, and that was what was making it so hard for me, how much it hurt me, too.

"I won't get heavy, I promise," he murmured into my hair. "I'll try to keep it light, keep... things... moving..." But then a spasm shook his chest as if he were choking back tears, breaking down and freaking out. "Oh Christ, Lucy, if this is the right thing, why do I feel so fucking lost right now?"

"We've been lost for so long now," I moaned softly. "But you're going back home now."

"The music's fading. Please play it again, just put it on repeat. I just want to dance with you, and hold you, because while we're dancing, I can pretend that none of this is really happening."

"Just one more time," I told him, reaching backwards to hit the space bar on my back. "But then that's it. You know it has to be."

"I just want this song to last forever, then."

"What was it Khama always used to say at the end of every night? Culture is a weapon, but music is the cure. Let the bass reach down into your soul, and wash your troubles away."

"Do you really believe that?" Thom pulled away slightly to look down at me, his eyes rimmed with red from crying.

"I have to. I have nothing else."

Taking my face between his hands, he looked down into my eyes tenderly, his lips twitching slightly as he moved towards me for a kiss. "Please, make love to me. One last time. Here, now, in the present tense."

"OK." I hadn't the heart to refuse, I wanted him so badly, and yet I was afraid if I took him in my arms again, I would never let him go.

And as the music faded for the last time, we crawled off to bed, like two wounded animals, for the last time.

 

\-----

 

In the morning, we were businesslike. We packed in near silence, apart from the occasional comment of "Is this your shirt, or mine?" or "Do you mind if I get a copy of that track off your hard drive?" and the slow untangling of three months of shared possessions and entwined lives. The storm-doors swung closed with an ominous clang, then we loaded up the car, locked the house and drove off. He was dropping me at the house in Silverlake, then I knew he was going back to the hotel, with Rachel, and probably flying home as soon as possible, because LA had too many memories now.

"I love you," I told him, as I stood on the curb, with my few possessions piled round me in plastic bags. I knew it would be polite to ask him in, but I didn't want to risk letting him get caught up in conversations with Steve or Tingie or whoever was around. "I will love you the rest of my life, just remember that. Whenever you feel like we did the wrong thing, remember that I still love you, no matter where you are, no matter what you're doing, I am loving you. Still."

He smiled, and brushed his lips across my forehead, pushing my stray dreadlock out of my face for the last time. "You always know what to say, to make me feel OK again."

I frowned. "You didn't say it back."

"Do I really need to? If you haven't worked out how much I love you by now... I would have thought it was fucking obvious..."

"Nothing's ever obvious with you, Furious."

"I do love you." He folded me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me so I couldn't see his face. "Though I may need to hate you for a little while, right now. I'm going to be quite angry... and then I'm going to be really sad."

"You won't. You'll be so fucking overjoyed and wrapped up in your new baby..."

He smiled wistfully. "You're going to get some fucking songs written about you, you know that, right?"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." I smiled proudly, on the inside.

"I don't know how I'm going to explain this, how we're going to go from writing songs about the government and World War Three, to writing songs about affairs and adultery, but... I'm sure The Loophole will pick it to pieces." He paused. "Will I see you online? Are you going to still hang out there?"

"I don't think I can."

"No, me neither. I guess this is goodbye." Then he kissed me, quickly, as if afraid to linger on my lips, then walked back to the car, turning and driving away without looking back at me, though my eyes followed him as far as the end of the road, until the car disappeared down the hill and was gone.

And then I turned around, and picked up my bags and trudged back inside, back to Adie, back to Mizz Ting, back to the whole new life that I had found because of The Loophole.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After everything, both Lucy and Thom find love again (just not with the people they expected).

You know the rest of this story from Spin and Mixmag and Pitchfork and Resident Advisor. Dubstep was the success story of the 00s, and the sound that grew out of those dark clubs in Croydon and Brixton went on to take over the world. The Axiom N Atom record remained an underground classic, but it was the Cherry Stone record, with its compelling mixture of dubstep and trip hop and bubblegum pop that smashed boundaries and took us to crossover mainstream success. Adie and I became the producer/songwriter team of the decade, up there with Timbaland and Xenomania and the Dust Brothers. Our remixes became sought-after club classics. We produced tracks for Britney Spears and Kylie Minogue and Girls Aloud and yes, we even did a song with Madonna. (And fulfilling a promise I made long ago, Thom was even my date for the Grammy we picked up for it, as my partner was touring on the other side of the world.)

Adie and Cherry got married, and he continued to produce her records until she retired from performing to go into artist management. And somehow, despite several incredible careers between the two of them, they raised a massive family of seven kids - somewhat easier in a mansion in Silverlake, than a council flat in Peckham. One by one, Adie's sisters came over to launch careers in the entertainment business, until practically the entire Smith family was living in posh ranch houses along the same canyon, running practically an entire cottage industry of music production and management. Colleen became a sought-after vocal coach, Aislinn started as a television actor and ended up directing music videos, and Niamh, working closely with Mizz Ting, put together a fashion house with a chain of upscale boutiques in LA, New York and Berlin. Even Mariko ended up leaving EMI to concentrate full-time on managing the ever-expanding Smith family empire, her business acumen never failing as she diversified into internet distribution.

I had thought I would miss Thom too badly to make music, but our schedule was so hectic I didn't really have luxury of time to mope. We spent over a year solid on the road, touring and DJ-ing and promoting first the Axiom N Atom record, then the Cherry Stone record. Somewhere in the middle of it, I released the songs I'd written for Thom as an E.P. on bPitch Control, and found myself adding "solo artist" to my already busy schedule, with a few select gigs that scared the shit out of me, as much as I needed to do them, to prove something to myself. Mizz Ting joined us, first just as a designer and stylist, but then as a live keyboardist, and the two of us, well, we got up to shenanigans as two single ladies on the road. But every so often, when I would look out - finding myself staring across the lights of Tokyo Bay or somewhere - and see the neon rainbows warped in the water like a brightly coloured oil slick, I would think of Thom, and my heart would ache. I never did stop loving him, not even years later when I heard _All I Need_ and _House Of Cards_ and _The Present Tense_ , and wondered, many, many times, if those lyrics were about us, if the unnamed adulterous _you_ in those songs was me. 

But his daughter, Agnes, was born a few months after we split up, and the joy with which he talked about her in interviews, I knew we had made the right decision. By the time we saw each other again, a few years later, our scars had healed, and we were able to look on one another with fiercely fond love, but nothing like the passion that had swept us up before. It helped that I was pregnant with my own first daughter at the time, and when my partner and I asked him to be her godfather, he accepted, delighted.

So yes, I learned to love again. It's obvious, or maybe it only feels now like it was obvious all along, how gently and patiently my future husband loved me the whole time, and gave me the time and space I needed to realise I could and did love him back. He was there all along, the only person who had always helped me and loved me and accepted me, no matter what, never asking anything in return. I had just been too dazzled by Thom to see it.

I was at home, visiting my parents and getting some TLC from my Mum after a crazy year and a half of nonstop touring. We had taken the car to a market in out in Putney where my Mum said she could get proper mielie-meal to make Umngqusho, her and my favourite childhood food. We hadn't even been there ten minutes when my Mum fell to gossiping with the other women at the stall about Southern African politics, leaving me to wander off, munching a packet of koeksisters to stave off my hunger. Of course I found my way to the lone record stall, though my fingers were far too sticky from the sweets for crate-digging, so I had to content myself looking over the shoulder of a young man in a brightly coloured hoodie, who was crouched on the ground, working his way through a box of obscure Naija jazz records from the 70s.

"That one looks amazing, it'd be worth having just for the cover alone," I laughed, as the man stopped at a record featuring a chorus of women in fantastically psychedelic gowns made of gaudy West African fabric.

'Yeah, I'm definitely going to have to pick this one up," he agreed, in an oddly familiar voice. I bent over to look at him, and the man cocked his head, then turned and stood up, a warm smile spreading slowly over his solemn features. "Lucy."

"Kieran!" He still looked exactly the same, though perhaps he was a little bit thinner, his hips protruding from his jeans like car doors, and his hair a little bit wilder, still leaping straight off the top of his head in unruly curls like a wiry black cloud.

"What are you doing here? Haven't seen you in ages. I thought you went off to the States to be a pop star," he teased, his wide lips crinkling into a smile. He seemed softer now, somehow, less solemn.

"Shopping with my Mum." I rolled my eyes as I gestured back towards the crowd haggling over the price of groceries as they debated politics. "The pop star thing... well, I'm a bit homeless at the moment."

"How are you?" His warm brown eyes twinkled. "You just seemed to disappear after you and Thom split. I was worried about you. Are you OK now?"

I took a deep sigh. The bruise was old enough not to hurt now. "Yeah, it was rough for a while, but... well. It was the right thing. Knowing that, well, helped."

"You could have answered one of my emails." There was a mournful, slightly wounded, rather than an accusatory tone to his voice.

"I know. I'm sorry. But I knew you were friends with him, and I didn't want to make you take sides... I don't know." I paused as I tried to remember what had been going through my head, but mostly I just remembered putting off answering his email until I felt better, and then getting caught up in our insanely heavy touring schedule. "Most of his friends hated me, to be honest. Then again, everyone except you hated me for getting together with him in the first place."

Kieran levelled a long, even look in my direction, his eyes seeming to see straight through my brave face, right down to my soul. "I knew how much you loved each other. That was enough for me."

"Well, I figured you'd probably hate me for splitting up with him."

"Hate you?" He shook his head gently and his mass of curls wobbled slightly. "Never."

"Do you ever see him?" I actually felt OK enough to ask him that, though it still felt kinda weird to say his name aloud. "Thom?"

"Yeah, I see him quite often these days. We DJ together a bit, it's a good lark. We have fun." I was glad that he had not seemed to hold our affair and our breakup against Thom either; he spoke of him with genuine warmth.

"Is he OK?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer to that.

"He's really good, actually. He's the happiest I've seen him in years. Fatherhood suits him. It really does. His baby daughter's adorable - and he thinks the earth, sun and moon revolve around her, of course."

"I'm glad." Actually, I was strangely heartened by the news. It was enough to make me happy, just knowing that he was happy. But Kieran was looking at me so expectantly, I felt I had to change the subject. "How about you and Jess? How are you getting on?" I ventured.

"Jess?" He looked completely confused and slightly flustered for a moment, before realising what I was talking about. "Oh god, that was ages ago. It wasn't serious, it was just a rebound thing. For both of us. She was getting over Ollie, I was... well, I was getting over someone, too."

As a shadow passed across his face, I realised that the person he had been getting over had been me. "I'm sorry," I said, with genuine concern, but he shrugged it off, his face returning to a goofy smile.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's still just me and the cats. We're fine."

I was going to ask him how Cosmo and Bob were, when my mother suddenly appeared, trying to hold together about half a dozen overstuffed plastic bags. "Lucy? Lucy my littlest one, where are you, we should be going..." A horned melon escaped from one of her bags and went rolling across the ground, but Kieran went after it and retrieved it.

"You must be Mrs Wildwood, as your daughter is so like you." My mother beamed, as her daughters were commonly held to be quite beautiful, and I knew she was proud of her looks. "Your gakachika, I presume." A slightly wistful look crossed his face as he turned it over in his hands. "I haven't eaten one of these since I was a kid. May I help you to your car?" he offered, proffering the fruit.

My mother looked him up and down, decided she liked the cut if his jib, and nodded decisively, allowing him to take several of the bags from her, then shot off towards the parking lot, leaving an overloaded Kieran to struggle to keep up with her. But he survived it like a trooper, charming my Mum as he loaded the groceries into the boot of the car by recognising and enthusing over some of the more obscure South African foodstuffs.

"Well, you know where I live," he suggested to me as my mother sat in the driver's seat, warming up the engine as she waited for me. "You should come round and let me make you dinner some time. I've learned how to make pretty good coffee, too... actually, I think it was once your coffeemaker, come to think of it."

"He cooks, he makes coffee... I always said you'd make someone a wonderful boyfriend," I teased, remembering the conversation we'd once had over that coffeemaker. He blushed and looked down shyly, making me realise how bold that had sounded, so I stuttered out a change of conversation. "I'd love to come round, but I don't know how long I'm in town for. Adie hasn't decided where he wants to record the next album, but I'm worried I'll be called off to LA or Denmark or Lagos any day now."

"Lagos? What, you going for a Fela Kuti vibe?"

"Well, that would be your fault, given how much you stuck on Bus Mix 7 or whichever one it was..." I teased.

"Well, you know, if you ever change your mind..." he tossed back, with a faintly nostalgic air and a smile that made me wonder if he was talking about the coffee or the offer he'd made that last morning over coffee.

My Mother hooted the horn of the car, keen to be off, so I didn't have the chance to ask him what he meant. "I'll come round for coffee soon, I promise..."

I looked at him carefully as my mother backed the car out and drove off, noting the slump of his shoulders - damn, he was still wearing that brightly coloured hoodie that had caused all that bother with Jonny over a year ago. I never had got it back off him, despite my promises to Jonny. Well, that was Jonny's fault for stopping speaking to me, wasn't it?

"Who was that young man?" my Mum demanded, shocking me out of my memories. "He looks a bit like Jack, but he's far more polite. Nicely brought up lad."

"He's nothing like Jack," I sighed.

"Good. I never liked that ex-husband of yours."

"Mum!" This news was a shock to me. After all the time I'd put off telling her about the divorce? "Why did you never say anything?"

"I know how kids are. I remember how I was when my own Mum hated your father. If you protest, you only drive them away from you towards the man." I stared at her in disbelief. "I never liked Jack, though. Never trusted that man. He had an unkind mouth."

"I wish you'd told me, about ten years earlier," I sighed, leaning my head against the window.

"So who was that young man in the market, then? The one with the kind mouth and the nice eyes."

"Kieran?"

"Kieran. That's not a Zimbabwean name. That's a shame, I thought he was African."

"Well, he's half South African," I confessed, knowing that this would be an invitation as far as my Mum was concerned.

"Is he single?" Her whole face perked up at the thought of matchmaking.

I turned away so my mother wouldn't see my blush. "I think he is actually."

"And he's not gay?"

"He's not gay." My Mum suddenly stopped the car and threw it into reverse. "Mum! What on earth are you doing?"

"Lucy, you are 32 years old and you are not getting any younger," she clucked.

"Muuuuuuuum!" I protested, shedding about 20 years in the process, wincing at the way that she made my singleness sound like a terrible affliction, despite all the incredible things I'd accomplished in the past year and a half since I'd dumped my husband.

"No, Lucy, you listen to me, I'm your mother. You go back and get that man to ask for your phone number, or invite you to dinner, or for drinks, or whatever it is you young people do..."

"He already asked me to dinner. I didn't know if you'd be willing to let me go for an evening, to accept," I confessed.

"Good god, girl what are you waiting for? Go, go, go!" She practically shooed me out of the car as she drove up behind a rather surprised looking Kieran, trudging away from the record stall with an armful of music.

"What is it? Does your Mum think I stole one of your bags of Miele-meal?" he laughed as I reappeared beside him, though mostly his face just twisted with adorable perplexment.

I had no idea how to do this, especially not with my Mum watching from the car. "Look, I know it's short notice, but... Do you want to come to dinner with my parents? Tonight?"

"Tonight...?" He shrugged. "Yeah, probably, I guess. I'm free, and your Mum seems nice." He smiled at me innocently, and I felt little butterflies floating about my stomach. Butterflies? Over Kieran? But Kieran was just a mate! Though the way he was looking at me, with that kind mouth, those wide, serious lips that I knew kissed so well... yeah, those were butterflies. Big, multi-coloured, psychedelic ones like those I'd painted all over the curtains of his loft in Shoreditch.

I shifted my weight nervously from one foot to the other.  "Look, Kieran. This is awkward, but I... I need to know. When I said just now... that you would make someone a really lovely boyfriend some day, well, once upon a time, you said..."

That slow smile spread over his face and my butterflies flocked like starlings. "I asked if that someone could ever be you." He paused for a moment, glancing down at his feet as if trying to get his courage up. "And I meant it."

"Could it... well, might it... still... possibly... be me?"

His face lit up like the sun, as he realised what I was asking. "You tell me. Could it?"

I scuffed the heels of my trainers like I was 14 years old again. I felt like I was 14 again, with my Mum watching me in the mirrors of the car. "Well, I did just invite you to meet my parents?"

"You mean, actually _Meet Your Parents_ , meet your parents?" I nodded, and the look of hopeful nervousness dawning on his face was absolutely adorable as he stepped closer towards me. "Your Mum seems really traditional. If I come round to court you, am I going to have to offer them a goat and a couple of chickens? There's a stall back there, I could just pop back and see what I can pick up..."

My Mum stuck her head out of the car window. "A goat and two chickens? Young man, she's worth at least a cow," she teased, as he turned bright red, not realising that he'd been overheard.

"A cow, six blankets and, um..." He looked down at the records he held in his arms. "The greatest hits of Thomas Mapfumo?"

"Ooh," squealed my mother with excitement, though I couldn't tell if she was happy over her favourite musician, or the prospect of a suitor for me. "It's a deal. She's all yours. Take her off our hands, please."

But Kieran was moving towards me, his solemn eyes leaving mine for the first time, and travelling up and down my body with a hunger that excited me but also made me slightly nervous, my heart pounding like it hadn't done in years, and I once thought it might never do again. He lowered his voice to a purr as soft as his deep brown eyes and asked gently "Lucy, I know I'm not the man of your dreams. I know that I don't inspire the same kind of fire and passion and emotional intensity that you had with Thom. But I'm loyal, and I'm steadfast, and my love is as solid as a rock. And I do love you, Lucy. I have loved you since the first time I saw you, when you walked up to me, so cool and calm and collected and together, and asked me to dance." My butterflies rose like a tropical storm, leaving my head spinning and dizzy with dawning happiness. "I knew you were the woman for me, at that moment, and every time I've seen you, I've just been more convinced of it. I am yours, if you want me. That invitation is always open. Will you have me, as your man?"

I put my arms around him and drew him down to me, so he could feel my breasts all perfume and his heart was going like mad and yes I said "Yes, I will. Yes. "


End file.
